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POEMS, 



BY 



CYNTHIA TAGGART. 



Though He cause grief, yet will He have compassion according to the 
multitude of his mercies. For He doth not afflict willingly, nor grieve 
the children of men. — Lam. iii. 32, 33. 



SECOND EDITION. 




CAMBRIDGE: 

PRINTED BY CHARLES FOLSOM 

1834. 



ft) z'ji^X 



Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1834, 

by Cranston & Hammond, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Rhode Island. 




PREFACE 

TO THE FIRST EDITION. 



It is believed that the Poems in this volume, 
composed as they were under circumstances of 
unusual affliction, will be read with a peculiar in- 
terest. They are the record of a secluded suffer- 
er ; yet surely, in a world like this, of vicissitude 
and sorrow, they cannot fail to touch some chord 
of sympathetic feeling. We are not fitted for the 
condition of human life, — we are not cultivated 
to the extent of the capabilities of our nature, if 
to us the genuine expressions of sorrow are not 
eloquent. It is for a benevolent purpose, that 
God has wrought into our souls a capacity of re- 
ceiving the impression of another's joys or sor- 
rows. It is this capacity w^hich unites us most 
truly to our fellow-beings. Without it, we should 
be solitary and sad in any part of God's universe. 
Without it, knowledge would lose half its value, 
prosperity its highest charm, and suffering its most 
grateful alleviation. The Scriptures make their 
appeal to us through this principle of our nature. 
Without this power of sympathy, we can hold no 
communion with Prophets and Apostles ; and 
without it, the subduing narrative of a Saviour's 
sufferings would have been given to us in vain. 



IV PREFACE TO THE 

Imagination was bestowed upon us, that we might 
place ourselves in the situation of others, and be 
excited by it to a congenial sympathy. This is, 
at least, one of the highest moral purposes of that 
noble faculty. When allied with benevolence 
and truth, it brings within our view a wider range 
of human interests than reason alone can appre- 
hend. Why is it so seldom consecrated either to 
the sacred charities of life, or to the anticipation 
of the untold glories of heaven ! 

From the Christian who has held intimate com- 
munion with the spirit of his crucified Master, and 
whose tenderness is kept alive by the highest mo- 
tives and the most touching remembrances, we 
may expect a just appreciation of the productions 
in this little volume. He solemnly reahzes that 
every human being is placed under the govern- 
ment of God ; and he views with deep interest 
the dispensations of his Providence toward indi- 
viduals, as well as toward nations. To him, an 
immortal being, striving for submission to the will 
of God, in the midst of calamity and accumulated 
suffering, is an object of sublime interest. The 
pathos and the poetry of truth, as exhibited in 
these productions, will be felt by the Christian. 
To the medical man and the philosopher, desir- 
ous of contemplating the human intellect and 
character under every variety of circumstance, 
productions indicating so much thought, imagina- 
tion, and feeling, and composed under the weight 
of the most oppressive disease, may furnish an 
interesting subject of reflection and inquiry. We 
cannot expect that those who are too much en- 
grossed by their own personal welfare, and with 
the conveniences and pleasures which surround 



FIRST EDITION. 



them, to think often of others, or to feel for them, 
will peruse this volume. Their sphere is too 
limited for the enlarged and generous sympathies 
of a rational spirit. But it is hoped that there 
are few who can peruse it, and remain unaffected 
by it. 

In confirmation of our opinion, that these Po- 
ems are not without power to interest, we offer 
some remarks introductory to one of the pieces, 
" An Ode to the Poppy," published in the Provi- 
dence Literary Journal. 

" The author of the following Ode is one of those, 
whom Misery has long since marked for her own, 
and exercised with the severest forms of physical 
suffering. Afflicted with a chronic disease of many 
years' duration (in the seat of thought itself), for 
which there is no remedy, and which must fatally 
terminate through slow and protracted degrees of 
pain and distress ; never wholly losing her conscious- 
ness of present evil, in the balm of sleep, the author 
has yet been able briefly to forget her condition, and 
to find momentary consolation, in dictating to her 
friends several poetical effusions ; from which the 
present has been selected as one of the most finished. 
Though secluded from the face of Nature, the memory 
of its various and beautiful forms is quickened, in her 
solitude, by a poet's imagination. There is a pathos 
in some of her pieces, a strength of soul struggling 
against the doom of its decaying tenement, in the 
agony of deferred and expiring hope, that excite in 
us, as we lay them down, a feeling of melancholy 
regret, that another mind is destined to pass away, 
and leave so imperfect a record of its origin ; — a 
regret that is but partially alleviated by the convic- 
tion, however sincere, that, as well in the universe of 
mind, as of matter, through all their endless chan- 



VI PREFACE TO THE 

ges, nothing is lost, and all is safe in the hands of its 
Maker. 

" The subject of this brief notice is little improved 
by education^ and owes nothing to circumstances : 
thus adding another to the thousand proofs that 
genius, in its different degrees and kinds, is a giftf 
native in the soul, irrepressible in its growth by the 
greatest weight of calamity, and flourishing even in 
the cold shadow of Death. 

"The author's story disarms criticism, and makes 
its way at once to the charity of the heart." 

Journal for Nov. 2d, 1833. 

The eloquent observations of the Editor of the 
Literary Journal are to the same purpose. 

" We solicit the attention of the reader to the pre- 
ceding columns, containing the Memoir of William 
Taggart, and to the communications by which it 
is accompanied. His unstudied and unpretending 
narrative would repay perusal, were it merely for the 
fine exhibition of personal character which it contains. 
It, moreover, affords information respecting important 
events in the war of our Independence, and parti- 
cularly illustrates some of the most interesting pas- 
sages in the history of our own State. 

"But these are not the strongest circumstances 
which recommend it to attention. We refer to it, not 
so much on account of its connexion with the memo- 
ry of the dead, as with the fate of the living ; with 
the condition of the surviving daughter, whose story, 
though brief, is terrible, and which cannot be repeat- 
ed or heard without emotion. It has already been 
told, in the introductory remarks accompanying one 
of her poetical effusions which we inserted a few 
weeks since. The victim of a lingering and in- 
curable malady, under which she has suffered for 
years ; never losing the sense of physical pain, and 
perfectly conscious of the hoplessness of her condi- 



FIRST EDITION. VU 

tion; although possessing but slight advantages of 
education, and owing little to the influence of socie- 
ty, she has sent forth compositions which contain 
the emanations of a mind rich in endowment, fraught 
with beautiful and delicate conceptions, embodied in 
a style of language, the correctness and purity of 
which, under all these adverse circumstances, is 
scarcely less remarkable than the thoughts which 
it contains. 

" We do not mean to say that her writings are 
not in many respects defective. They are so ; and 
they could not be otherwise. But, considering the 
peculiar situation of their author, they are certainly 
remarkable productions ; and without any allowance 
for circumstances, if subjected to the rules of rigid 
criticism, some of them would not suffer by a com- 
parison with the ordinary writings of many who have 
acquired no slight degree of celebrity. 

" The references to her own severe deprivations, 
which they contain, often bear a touching pathos, 
which finds its way directly to the heart; but of their 
affecting power she herself appears to be almost un- 
concious. There is evidently an absence of all de- 
sign to enlist the feelings of others by allusions of 
this nature. Whenever we find them in her wri- 
tings, they appear to come involuntarily from the 
depths of her own feelings, and to be mingled with 
the beautiful imagery of her poetry merely through 
the unceasing pressure of the physical suffering from 
which her spirit seeks relief among the creations of 
her vivid imagination. 

" The proposal for publishing a collection of her 
poems certainly deserves encouragement. We hope 
it will be carried into effect : for, apart from all 
personal considerations, their intrinsic value renders 
them worthy of preservation. It is not to furnish the 
author with the means of ease and enjoyment, for 
this is beyond the reach of human power ; but it is 



Vm PREFACE TO THE 

with the design of alleviating, in some degree, the 
calamities which surround her, that this proposal has 
been made. It is honorable to those with whom it 
originated. 

*' No one who can appreciate the productions of 
genius ; indeed, no one who can feels the claims of 
humanity, will view a proposal of this nature, with 
indifference. The mere statement of facts relating 
to this young lady, which has already been given, is 
in itself the most powerful appeal which can be 
made in her behalf. It is mournful to think upon 
such a mind, suffering under the infliction of a fate 
like hers; of a spirit so finely tempered, — so framed 
to sympathize with all the beautiful and exquisite 
harmonies of the outward creation, — so fitted to 
draw instruction and delight from the exhaustless 
treasury of nature ; debarred from all communication 
with the thousand scenes of inspiration, which are 
continually furnishing other minds with the materials 
of new and expanded thought, — doomed to the en- 
durance of bodily pain, from which there is no relief, 
— still rising above the trials which are wearing it 
away, and pouring forth, amid languishment and 
pain, its rich music, like the melody of the dying 
swan." Journal for December 1th ^ 1833. 

To the subjoined letters,* the reader is referred 
for other interesting particulars respecting the sub- 
ject of this notice. 

The venerable father f of the author, like many 
other patriots of the Revolution, bequeathed no- 
thing to his family but the memory of his good 
vi^orks ; and their circumstances, before much 
straitened, have been reduced, by the cessation 
of his pension, within the ordinary measure of a 

* Page xix. 

t See the annexed Memoir, written by himself, p. xxii. 



FIRST EDITION. IX 

comfortable subsistence. The publication of this 
volume, undertaken at the suggestion of her 
friends, will be the means, — not of ministering to 
the love of fame, but of affording to the afflicted 
daughter, in the way most grateful to her fine 
feelings, and, through her, to the other portion of 
the family, a very needful relief from the pressure 
of adverse fortune. — Let those who believe that 
the national obligations to the Men of '76 have 
been but imperfectly fulfilled, avail themselves of 
every opportunity to discharge their portions of 
the accumulated debt of public gratitude, to such 
of the descendants of these Men, as are the wor- 
thy inheritors of their good name. — Had the 
author been favored with but a common share of 
that most essential blessing, health, she would not 
now need a preface to commend her to the public 
attention ; but would in all probability be enjoying 
that homage of consideration and esteem for emi- 
nent talent and personal excellence, which we 
delight to manifest towards the distinguished fe- 
male writers of our country. 

As has already been stated, the author of these 
Poems dictated them (or the greater part of them) 
to her friends. They have never had her revis- 
ion for publication, her health not permitting any 
exertion of this kind ; and some of those who 
wrote them down, evidently have an imperfect 
acquaintance with the construction of verse. It 
has therefore been found necessary to make oc- 
casional corrections of style and language ; not, 
however, such as to impair the author's originahty 
of thought or expression. It is a matter of sur- 
prise, considering her defective education, and the 
impossibility of improvement, from the very na- 



X PREFACE TO THE 

ture of her unhappy condition, that there should 
have been so few grammatical inaccuracies and 
defects of rhyme that needed to be amended. — 
The reader will readily perceive that poetical 
writings must require, much more frequently than 
prose compositions, the proper exercise of this 
discretion. We oftentimes meet with excellent 
ideas (particularly in reading the old, quaint prose 
writers) embodied in a rude and repulsive style, 
and very readily pardon the language to the sense. 
But it is not so with poetry. One of the princi- 
pal pleasures, which poetry, as such, distinguished 
from poetical thoughts in prose, affords us, is in 
the structure and harmony of its versification. 
When this is careless, imperfect, and discordant, 
the ear is at once offended ; and good taste may 
thus mislead the judgment to an unfair estimate 
of the real powers of an author. 

" Like words to music in an unknown tongue, — 
Unpolished diamonds, or as pearls unstrung, 
Large, generous thoughts, in phrase obscure confined. 
Are buried deep, and lost to all mankind." 

To those who are in the habit of hastily run- 
ning the eye over a few pages of a work, and of 
casting it aside if the first impression be unfavora- 
ble, we would point out any one of the following 
pieces, — '"The Heart's Desire," " The Happy 
Birds," '' On the Return of Spring," " Lines on 
a Minister of the Gospel," " Ode to the Pop- 
py," "Midnight," "The Twin Sisters," "An 
Apostrophe to Thought," " Woman's Sympathy," 
" Lines on Reading the Poems of * * * *," " The 
Happiness of Early Years," " Distress," " De- 
spair." " To her Father, supposed to be Dying," 
— as well adapted to attract their attention, and 
to secure their interest and good opinion. 



FIRST EDITION. XI 

It is possible, from the tone of melancholy com- 
plaint, which pervades these productions, that 
some may be led to believe the author destitute 
of one gift, so necessary in her condition, that of 
pious resignation. It should be remembered, 
however, that the poems were separately com- 
posed, — most of them at long intervals of time ; 
and that each, when written, naturally expressed 
the feelings of the author in her pecuhar trials. 
The general effect of the whole upon the reader 
is not then the true test of the character of the 
several parts ; — and, as " every heart knoweth its 
own bitterness " under the pressure of afflictions, 
who but the Searcher of hearts shall chide these 
lamentations of poor, stricken humanity, and say 
that they are too deep, and bitter, and prolonged ! 
— If any human soul may utter from the depths 
of its anguish, a voice of sad repining to its Maker, 
it is that soul, which, conscious of powers beyond 
the common allotment to the race, undeveloped 
and uninstructed, — of honest and noble purposes, 
of large and generous sympathies and emotions 
toward all who live, — is prematurely drawing 
nearer to the close of a painful life, without having 
acted to a purpose in God's world, through the 
defect and decay of the tenement with which its 
mysterious being is invested, — leaving all that 
good undone which it aspired to do, — making no 
sign upon the times in which it appeared. Should 
such a grieved spirit pour itself out in a complaint, 
that does not breathe what we, the healthy and 
the happy, may call the calmness of resignation, 
it may be that " the tear of the Angel of Mercy " 
shall fall upon it, and "blot it out for ever" from 
the Judgment-Book of God's Remembrance. 



XU PREFACE TO THE 

But further,' — a moment's reflection on the m- 
fluence of cerebral disease upon the mind, would 
remove any remaining impression unfavorable to 
the author. If you would form a just estimate of 
her piety, you should think what the effect would 
be in your own case, to have all the sources of 
pleasurable sensation dried up, and all the powers 
of thought disturbed by its oppressed organ. If 
the brain, the medium through which the mind 
acts, be diseased, of course all the operations of 
the mind are impeded, or imperfectly and painful- 
ly performed. — Christianity, we know, does not 
directly remove those evils which have their ori- 
gin in physical causes ; though undoubtedly it has 
in it a tendency, as Baxter remarks, to remove all 
evil, inasmuch as it strikes at the root of all sin. 
" For those whose melancholy arises from corpo- 
real causes," he says, " I would give this advice : 
Expect not that rational, spiritual remedies should 
suffice for this cure ; for you may as well expect 
a good sermon, or comfortable words, should cure 
palsy, as to be a sufficient cure to your melan- 
choly fears, for this is as real a bodily disease as 
the other." Baxter was no superficial thinker. 
He knew well that the reciprocal influences of 
mind and body do not cease in those who have 
their hearts and hopes in Heaven. No, — though 
its contemplation rest on God, on eternity, and its 
own moral nature and destiny, — while the soul is 
in the body, it is subject to the laws which govern 
both, and to the mysterious action and reaction 
established by them ; and the faith of a Chris- 
tian, though it may sustain the sufferer in the 
painful exercise of thought, feeling, and vohtion 
consequent upon a diseased organization, yet will 



FIRST EDITION. Xlll 

not reverse this effect of physical causes. All the 
appropriate efforts of the rational spirit are to be 
made, in such a case, by an instrument unfitted 
for its '' high employ " ; and the soul must sink 
back upon itself, waiting, in faith, the day of its 
redemption from the burden of the flesh. Bless- 
ed be God, that there are truths appropriate to 
our higher nature, and adequate to sustain us 
amidst the gloom and solitude of bodily suffering. 
The Resurrection will be a remedy to the most 
lengthened malady ; and the body will then become 
a perfect medium for the manifestations of mind 
and spirit. If we duly considered how easily " the 
fine net-work of mortality " may be disordered, 
and the effects resulting from this disorder, we 
should be better prepared to comprehend the 
state of the afflicted, and to minister to their ne- 
cessities. Let the diseased bear in mind, for their 
own consolation, that God remembers their frame. 
'^ He knows each secret thread in nature's loom ; " 
and perceives the necessary effect of their physi- 
cal maladies, though unperceived by human skill 
and science. The weakness of the flesh now too 
often defeats the willing submission of the spirit. 
But it will not be so always. 

It is important that, in the perusal of these 
poems, we should keep in mind the peculiar 
character of the author's sufferings, and the cir- 
cumstances under which they were composed ; — 
otherwise, we shall be but poor interpreters of 
their spirit. We should remember that, under 
" the pressure of irresistible suffering," God per- 
mits his creatures to complain to him, though not 
to murmur against him. We should consider, 
that the faith manifested in such a complex state 



XIV PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 

of trial, though darkened by disease, may be as 
acceptable in the eye of God, as it is in its more 
joyous and triumphant exhibitions. 

We would hope that the perusal of this volume 
may awaken in us a solemn conviction of our de- 
pendence on a Higher Power for every blessing, 
and of the consequent duty of using each to his 
glory; — ^and a sentiment of deep consideration 
and tenderness for those less prosperous than our- 
selves. We should remember that though the 
dispensations of God's Providence are various, 
yet that He designs but one end by them all, — ■ 
to educate immortal spirits for the future life. 
When this end shall have been accomplished, the 
dark waters of affliction will have passed away 
for ever. 



PREFACE 

TO THE SECOND EDITION 



In the present edition the pieces entitled ^' The 
Cup of Bitterness/' '' Psahn Forty-first," " To a 

Lady," '« To the Young Ladies of Miss 's 

School," have been added to the Poems ; and 
" Some Account of the Author, written by Her- 
self," has been prefixed to them. 

The volume is moreover enriched by a portrait 
of the author, and by a landscape view of the 
cottage where she resides. The former has been 
kindly furnished by Miss Jane Stuart of Newport, 
and the latter by Lieut. Harwood of the same 
place. 

August y 1834. 



ERRATUM. 

Page 14, line 8, for parting read pantin" 



CONTENTS. 



Preface to the First Edition". 
Preface to the Second Edition. 
Letters relating to the Author. 
Letter from the Rev. Mr. Richmond. 

" " the Rev. Mr. Cutler. 

" " the Author. 

" " Mr. Gammell. . 

Memoir of William Taggart. 

Some Account of the Author by Herself. 



POEMS, 

Evening, 1817 

Autumn. 1822. 
A Solace. 1822. 
The Use of Afflictions. 1822. 
Hope of Happiness after Death. . 
Contrast. 1823. 
The Heart's Desire. 1823. 
Health. 1823. 
The Change. May, 1824. 
An Invocation to Hope. 1824. 
The Happy Birds, 
To my Father's Friend. 
Past Pleasures. 1824. 
The Starry Worlds. 
On the Return of Spring. 1825. 
Verses for Children. 
To a Nephew. .... 
Lines on a Minister of the Gospel 
On a Storm. 1825. . 
To a Once Frequented Retreat. 1825 
Ode to the Poppy. 1825. . 
B 



Page 
iii 

XV 

xix 

xix 

xxii 

xxiv 

XXV 

xxvii 
xxxvi 



1 
2 
3 

6 

7 
8 
9 
15 
17 
18 
19 
20 
21 
23 
24 
25 
28 
29 
31 
32 
34 



XVlll 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

Summer Sunset 37 

Midnight. 1825 38 

The Twin Sisters 41 

Pity 42 

Christian Character. - 43 

45 

. 47 

49 

.53 



An Appeal to the Faculty. 

To a Young Lady. Nov. 1825 

To Mrs. R . 1826 

To an Aged Friend of my Father. .... 

An Apostrophe to Sorrow; the Sorrow of this World. 



1826. 



54 

On Commodore Oliver H. Perry ; upon the Re-inter- 
ment of his Remains at Newport, R. I. 1826. . . 57 
An Apostrophe to Thought ; Winter of 1826, Midnight. 59 

To a Sister in Affliction. 63 

To a beloved Sister, a few Weeks before her Death. . 65 
On the sudden Death of the Rev. William Gammell, 

of Newport, R. I. 1827. 
An Epitaph on a Mother and her Son. . 

Epitaph on Captain J T » . .. 

To a Cousin. 1827. ..... 



To an Intimate Friend. 1827. . 
Woman's Sympathy : to a Lady. 1828. 
Musings, ....... 

The Song of the Birds. .... 

The Voice of the Wind. 1829. 

Lines on Reading the Poems of * * * *. 1829. 

The Happiness of Early Years. 

A Fragment 



Sorrow. 



1829. 



1833. 



Lines composed in great Suffering 

Distress 

Despair. ..... 

To her Father, supposed to be Dying. 
The Cup of Bitterness. 

Psalm Forty-first 

To a Lady. 1834 

To the Young Ladies of Miss 's School 



1834. 



67 
68 
69 
70 
71 
77 
79. 
80 
81 
83 
84 
89 
90 
90 
92 
93 
95 
98 
100 
102 
104 



LETTERS 
RELATING TO THE AUTHOR 



Letter from the Rev. James C. Richmond, to his 
Brother , the Rev. William Richmond, of Bloom' 
ingdale, N. Y, 

Salem, Mass., April 10th, 1833. 
Dear Brother, 

Agreeably to your request I have drawn up a brief 
account of the visit we made, in the spring of 1832, 
to the home and graves of our forefathers, and of 
an incident which then occurred. 

Wearied with the noise and bustle of a Rhode 
Island Election, we determined to make our escape 
from Newport, to the quiet scenes, in the midst of 
which we had passed together many happy and 
tranquil hours. We intended to cross from the 
Island to the town of Little Compton ; but, as might 
have been anticipated, the ferryman was enjoying 
the Election holyday at Newport. Observing a 
small house on the hill, I went to it for the purpose 
of procuring some provisions for our party. When 
I reached the fence, I observed, in the little yard 
before the house, an old man, who seemed to be oc- 
cupied about some household duties, and who did 
not at first notice my presence. As soon however 
as I spoke to him (Mr. Taggart), he came toward 



XX LETTERS RELATING TO 

me ; and, on my making known our wants, a con- 
versation ensued, in which, to show that his will lo 
serve us was greater than his ability, he spoke of 
the afflictions of his family. Still, he said, we were 
welcome to all that his house could aiford us. Re- 
turning to the subject of his family, he said, with 
deep feeling, '' I suppose. Sir, that I have the most 
afflicted family on this Island. I have one daughter 
who has been lying on her bed in that house, more 
than eleven years, and the physicians can do noth- 
ing for her. Her sister has worn herself out in 
watching over her, and now she is a cripple, and 
has to be moved about the house. Another daugh- 
ter is deranged, and my wife is old and feeble, and 
troubled with a bad cough. She does all she can, 
Sir ; but I cannot work as I used to do : and I have 
had very heavy doctors' bills to pay. It is but 
a little while since I paid more than four hundred 
dollars. I have been obliged to mortgage my little 
farm ; and it is almost all gone. I hope it will be 
enough to carry us through this world to a better. 
It is all right. I know that the Supreme Ruler of 
the Universe does what is best for us." 

I informed him that I had left you M^aiting for the 
ferry-boat, and he seemed highly pleased to learn 
that you were a Christian minister.* Your own 
words, after the interview, that *' we were as much 
interested in this scene, as in almost any other that 
we ever witnessed together," show that I was not 
wrong in my anticipations when I requested you to 
visit the family. 

They spoke of the manner in which their daugh- 
ter Cynthia passed the time ; and the verses which 
she had written were shown to us. I do not sup- 



* Mr. J. C. Richmond was not at that time admitted to 
the ministry. 



THE AUTHOR. XXI 

pose the poems would have affected me so deeply as 
they did, had I met with them, as those who will 
read this description will meet with them, in a print- 
ed book. But I must confess, that, when I consid- 
ered the place, the seclusion from almost all the 
world, in which the family have lived, the few ad- 
vantages, even of a common school education, 
which their daughter had enjoyed, and then remem- 
bered the manner in which it has pleased God to 
wound her spirit, and to bow down her soul, I could 
not but consider them as remarkable productions. 
Probably the verses may be liable to criticism ; but 
one thing is certain, — they are a faithful picture 
of deep sorrow and suffering. The sufferer had 
lain, for nearly half her life, where we saw her. 
Through how many weary, restless days and nights 
had she passed ! Is it not strange that we, who are 
blessed with health and strength, should ever mur- 
mur at the allotments of Providence, when, com- 
pared with such sorrows as these, our afflictions 
seem trifling and momentary? 

When you conversed with her, she expressed her 
resignation to the will of God ; but, though patient 
under her sufferings, her heart seemed almost brok- 
en with hope deferred. She had passed most of 
this long period of affliction in the expectation that 
she should one day be raised again to health and 
strength; and this disappointment had imparted a 
deep melancholy to her thoughts. Her views of 
herself were most humble ; and she seemed unwil- 
ling by her answers to lead you to suppose, that she 
was more at peace with herself and her Maker, 
than was really the case. 



XXU LETTERS RELATING TO 



Letter from the Rev. Benjamin C. Cutler, Rector of 
St. Ann's Church, Brooklyn, New York, to a 
Gentleman of the City of New York, 

Brooklyn, N. Y., Dec. 1833. 
Dear Sir, 

The request that I would give you some ac- 
count of the writer of the Poems about to be pub- 
hshed, is cheerfully granted. 

For some years past, I have spent a few weeks in 
autumn, on the southeastern extremity of Rhode 
Island. 

While there in the autumn of 1832, I heard of 
an afflicted family in the neighbourhood; and, learn- 
ing that a visit of condolence would be very accep- 
table, I determined to make one. I was directed to 
a small house, far from any road, on the side of a 
hill descending precipitately to an arm of the sea, 
which separates this Island from the adjoining State. 
The first person I saw, on approaching the house, 
was a young woman at the door, who, as soon as she 
perceived me, uttered some incoherent words and 
disappeared. I knocked, was admitted, and soon 
introduced to the family. 

It was composed of a venerable old man, his wife, 
and three daughters. Here I found sickness, dis- 
tress, and poverty, in conflict with religion, peace, 
and purity ; and I rejoice to say the latter appeared 
to triumph. 

The old man was feeble, and broken in constitu- 
tion and health. His " hoary head," however, was 
'^ a crown of glory," for it was found in " the way of 
righteousness." 

He had been an officer in the Revolutionary war, 
and his last days were made anxious by endeavours 
to obtain a pension. He succeeded about a year 
since ; but has now gone to serve a more generous 
Master. 



THE AUTHOR. XXllI 

His wife was a confirmed invalid, and could with 
the greatest difficulty discharge her domestic duties. 

The three daughters were the principal sufferers. 
One was deprived of reason : the other two were 
emaciated by disease, and had been confined to their 
beds, one for two, and the other for seven years. 
Medical attendance, medicines, and loss of time in 
nursing his children, had consumed all the property 
of the good old man, except the small tenement 
which he occupied, and which ere long he expected 
to exchange for a still narrower one. But, for the 
credit of religion, and for the comfort of all who 
may be called to pass through " the fire " of such 
trials, I can say, that this veteran soldier of Christ 
and his family seemed supported by the consolations 
of the Gospel. On these I conversed at large, and 
with each member of the family ; and I endeavoured 
to lighten, by every means in my power, the heavy 
burdens of these poor pilgrims. 

The father, the mother, and one of the daughters 
appeared cheerful and resigned ; but the other 
daughter seemed greatly depressed. She had been 
now seven years on a bed of exquisite pain. Her hair 
had turned gray by the unmitigated anguish of her 
head. Sleep had long deserted her, and she seemed 
to have been in the act of martyrdom for years. 
Confined for so long a time to her bed, incapable of 
occupation or amusement, at times, even of devo- 
tion, she struggled hard to say, " Thy will be done." 
She however appeared to confide in God, but was 
destitute of spiritual consolation. 

In this state, and in this place, she composed, 
from time to time, the Poems which are about to be 
published. They are like the Lamentations of Jere- 
miah, or, more truly, like the complainings of Job; 
and may serve to make both the prosperous and the 
afflicted more grateful, and submissive to the allot- 
ments of Divine Providence. 



XXIV LETTERS RELATING TO 

The Poems were composed and committed to 
memory, chiefly in the night ; and were committed 
to writing by the father and others, at their leisure. 

A little garden before her window, the sun which 
rose and set, the winds of heaven which shook her 
cottage, and the ocean, whose '' billowy anthem" 
was ever chanting at the foot of the hill, afforded 
the only variety to her thoughts. From these and 
from her bodily sufferings she draws subjects and 
illustrations for her Muse. She remains to this day 
sunk in a bed of anguish, calm and patient. The 
blessed Saviour, I trust, sits beside her as a "re- 
finer and purifier of silver ; " and when he per- 
ceives the work to be completed, he will doubtless 
withdraw the fire. I am glad that her Poems are 
to be published, for it is always a relief to make 
known our griefs ; and I cannot but hope, whether 
the number of her admirers be great or small, that 
she will by these Poems secure to herself a few sym- 
pathizing friends. One I am sure she has already 
made ; who remains, dear Sir, 

Always yours. 

B. C. Cutler. 



Letter from the Author to a Friend in Providence. 

(dictated.) 

October 28th, 1833. 
Dear Madam, 

I have not strength at present to comply with your 
request respecting an account of the nature and pro- 
gress of my protracted diseases, and of my feelings 
under them, which have been any thing rather than 
what I could wish ; though at all times, in my 
greatest extremities, I have assuredly believed that 



THE AUTHOR, XXV 

the Judge of all the earth will do right, and that it is 
in mercy and compassion He afflicts ; and have de- 
sired to be enabled to say, *' It is the Lord ; let him do 
as seemeth to him good." If ever I am favored with 
strength and composure sufficient, I will, with the 
utmost readiness and alacrity, gratify your wishes. 
My dear father is very ill, and to appearance fast ap- 
proaching the bounds of mortality, — but with pros- 
pects full of immortality and life. His faith is 
strong, and his soul sustained, in the midst of his 
bodily distresses, with heavenly consolations, and 
peace that passeth understanding ; which is a great 
encouragement and support to our minds, in the 
pain and anguish of being separated from a kind 
and precious parent. But it is our humble hope 
and earnest prayer that the separation may not be 
final; and that we may be again united in those 
blessed abodes, where there is no more pain, sin, nor 
sorrow, and where the Lord shall wipe away all 
tears from all eyes : and it is a consoling reflection 
that this will be the happy lot of all those that love 
and obey the Saviour. 

With great esteem and cordial regard, 

Your friend, 

Cynthia Taggart. 



Letter from William Gammell, T'litor in Brown 
University , to a Friend of the Author. 

Monday, Dec. 30th, 1833. 
My dear Madam, 

I went on Saturday to fufill my promise and visit 
the lady, in whom you have taken so kind an inter- 
est. 

Watchfulness and pain had so reduced her 
strength that she was able to converse but little. 



XXVI LETTERS RELATING TO THE AUTHOR. 

But, in that little, was manifested a mind superior to 
the circumstances in which she had always been 
placed. She spoke of the glooms which disease will 
sometimes bring over the hopes and prospects of the 
future ; and, though her confidence in the truths and 
promises of religion, was too firm to be shaken, she 
seemed to be the victim of fears and doubts and 
those gloomy apprehensions, with which a diseased 
body so often afflicts the mind. With a clearness of 
expression, such as experience alone can give, she 
alluded to the influence of the body upon the spirit, 
withdrawing it from its appropriate range, either to 
prey upon its own existence, or to fret itself against 
the walls of its prison-house, — to the difficulty of 
pursuing continuous thought, and of catching more 
than occasional glimpses of that region where the 
mind finds its proper aliment, and objects worthy of 
its attention. She spoke of the kindness of the 
friends who had visited her afflicted family, and 
expressed her gratitude for the letters which she had 
received. Her conversation was characterized by 
clearness and appropriateness of expression, by cor- 
rectness of remark, and sometimes by superior intel- 
ligence. She had recently been so ill, that after a 
few minutes' conversation I took my leave, regret- 
ting that I could stay no longer. I left their dwel- 
ling, having witnessed a scene of domestic suffering, 
and a form of domestic piety, which none can con- 
template without being made better. The impres- 
sion of it will never be effaced from my recollection. 
Amidst the discontents and repinings of society, I 
shall often recall the spectacle of this suffering fami- 
ly, and think of the value of that religion which has 
been their support. I am, &c. 

W. Gabimell. 



MEMOIR OF WILLIAM TAGGART, 



WRITTEN BY HIMSELF. 

William Taggart, the elder, was a respectable 
citizen of Newport, Rhode Island. He held the 
office of President of the Town-Council ; was, for 
several years, one of the Judges of the Court of Com- 
mon Pleas for the County of Newport ; and was sub- 
sequently elected a Judge of the Supreme Court. 
He took a very active part in our Revolutionary 
struggle, and suffered great loss of property, by se- 
vere depredations during the War of Independence. 
His eldest son, William, the writer and subject of 
the present short Memoir, was born in Newport, on 
the 7th day of May, 1755, and resided there un- 
til he was fifteen years of age, when he went on a 
voyage to sea, with his father. 

Soon after our return, my father purchased a val- 
uable farm in the town of Middletown, about six miles 
from Newport. He removed to the farm, where I 
resided with him, being fond of agricultural pursuits. 
I was the eldest of twelve children ; among whom 
the greatest harmony prevailed, until it was unhap- 
pily interrupted by the arrival of the British troops, 
who landed upon Rhode Island, in December, 1776. 
In a few days, a Hessian Colonel took possession of 
the best part of our commodious mansion-house ; he 
having selected it as quarters for himself and his reti- 
nue. Although the Colonel was extremely polite, 
yet the mother of this numerous family was rendered 
very uneasy, and could not brook the idea of being 



XXVlll MEMOIR OP WILLIAM TAGGART. 

among soldiers, in such a state of vassalage and dan- 
ger ; more especially on account of her daughters, 
who, she was very apprehensive, would be particu- 
larly liable to the insults of a brutal soldiery. She 
therefore prevailed on her husband to remove the fami- 
ly from the Island ; and accordingly the whole, with 
the exception of my father and two of my brothers 
next in age to myself, removed, under my care, to the 
town of i^ittle Compton. During the following sum- 
mer an expedition was formed under the command of 
Major-General Spencer, to attack the British troops, 
and to obtain possession of the Island, and the town 
of Newport. About this time, a person came from 
the Island with a flag, and informed me that my fa- 
ther had expressed a wish for me to come over to the 
Island and have an interview with him. I commu- 
nicated this fact to Colonel Joseph Stanton, who 
then commanded at Rowland's Ferry, in Tiverton. 
He assented to the proposal, and directed three offi- 
cers of the American army to accompany me, and to 
obtain the best possible information of the force, 
strength, and situation of the enemy. One of these 
officers was a Lieutenant Charles Handy, of New- 
port. On the following night, we proceeded to my 
father's mansion on the Island ; and ascertained, to 
the best of my recollection, that the British force did 
not exceed two thousand men, who had scarcely any 
intrenchments on any part of the Island ; — that 
their naval force was very small, and in such a 
situation, that an expedition might, if judiciously 
arranged, be so conducted, as, under God, to insure 
success. We returned in safety, and made report of 
every particular to the proper officers. The expe- 
dition was rapidly progressing. In the interim, I 
several times went upon the Island, to obtain addi- 
tional information, previous to the night which had 
been assigned for the landing of our army ; and, 
through the same channel, I received all the intel- 
ligence which was desirable or necessary. 



MEMOIR OF WILLIAM TAGGART. XXIX 

The night at length arrived. Our troops, said to 
be twelve thousand strong, were drawn up, under 
arms, ready for embarcation. A party of about thir- 
ty, of which I was one, was detached in three boats : 
and having landed, well down to the mouth of the 
river, we immediately proceeded to my father's house. 
He, with his two sons, who, until this period, had 
remained on the Island, and had communicated much 
important information to the American commander, 
now joined us. Our orders were, to proceed to Black 
Point, so called, which was the place designated for 
the landing of our army. The landing was to be 
made, at a signal which had been previously arranged ; 
and we were ordered to secure the sentinels in our 
route, and to call on the inhabitants to come 
out, with their teams, &.C., to assist in transport- 
ing the cannon. On our way, we captured two 
mounted light-horsemen, who were patrolling the 
shore ; and, after our arrival at the appointed station, 
we waited until near day-break, for the signal. But 
it was not given ; and, to our great mortification and 
disappointment, we were underthenecessity of leaving 
the Island, accompanied by my father and brothers, 
who would undoubtedly have been condemned to an 
ignominious death, if they had remained; as the ac- 
tive part which they had taken, in communicating 
intelligence to the American forces, was now dis- 
covered. They were accordingly compelled to aban- 
don a valuable property, which was afterwards de- 
stroyed by the ruthless enemy. Houses, barns, or- 
chards, fruit trees, fences, were all wantonly torn in 
pieces ; and the whole farm left a barren waste, — 
the mere soil, which they could not destroy, alone 
remaining. 

My venerable parents being thus reduced, at 
once, from affluence to extreme poverty, the Legis- 
lature of the State granted my father the sum of 
two hundred pounds, lawful money ; which, in the 
then depreciated state of the currency, was but a 



XXX MEMOIR OF WILLIAM TAGGART. 

temporary relief for so numerous a family. Some 
time after this, the same authority put him in pos- 
session of a confiscated estate, called the Seconnet 
Point Farm, which was extremely exposed to the 
enemy, as will be found in the sequel of this nar- 
rative. Early in the summer of 1778, another ex- 
pedition for taking possession of Rhode Island was 
planned, under the direction of Major-General Sul- 
livan ; and a very large force from the States of 
Rhode Island and Massachusetts, was collected to 
carry it into effect. My father was appointed to 
command the boats intended for landing tlie troops, 
with the rank, pay, and rations of a major in the 
army; and afterwards, by a warrant, dated May 8th, 
1778, under the hand of General Sullivan, I was 
appointed a captain of the boats under my father, 
with the pay, &lc., of a captain in the army. By 
virtue of this warrant, I enlisted a number of boat- 
men, who were allowed the same pay as the troops 
in the service of the State. After the failure of the 
expedition, we were ordered to proceed with the 
boats, for their safe keeping, to Dighton, in the 
State of Massachusetts, where we remained until 
the tenth of March, 1779; when we were all dis- 
charged by General Sullivan. I then retired, with 
my father, to the farm on Seconnet Point. 

Toward the latter part of the July following, a 
large party of Refugees from Newport, came to Little 
Compton, for the express purpose of making pris- 
oners of my father and his sons, who were peculiarly 
obnoxious to the enemy. This party landed undis- 
covered ; although there was a guard kept at the house 
where we dwelt, and sentinels were stationed on the 
shore. Two of the sentinels, discovering a boat, 
hailed and fired ; but were immediately seized by 
the enemy, then at their backs, with threats of im- 
mediate death for daring to fire. We were alarmed 
at the house by the report of the muskets ; and I and 
my unfortunate brother, having armed ourselves, 



MEMOIR OF WILLIAM TAGGART. XXXI 

were the first to reach the shore ; and were instant- 
ly made prisoners by the enemy, who were in am- 
bush. As they appeared to be in confusion, my 
poor brother attempted to escape, by leaping over a 
stone wall; and had proceeded some distance, when 
he was fired on, and wounded through the thigh. 
One of the merciless desperadoes pursued, and ran 
him through with a bayonet. Although more than 
half a century has passed, since that cruel and savage 
deed, my blood still thrills at the recollection of the 
tragic scene ! They then took four of our party on 
board their schooner, and lodged us in the jail at 
Newport, which was then used as a provost. I 
there remained as prisoner for about a fortnight, 
when, with a Captain Benjamin Borden, of Fall Riv- 
er, I made my escape, in the following manner. 
The prisoners were occasionally permited to go into 
the cellar; where we observed that, instead of iron, 
the windows were furnished with wooden bars, which 
might be easily removed with a good knife. But 
even then, there were difficulties to be surmounted, 
which, to persons less determined than ourselves, 
would doubtless have appeared insuperable. Sen- 
tinels were placed both in front and rear of the 
prison; and were continually patrolling. At the east 
end of the building, there was, and still is, a narrow 
street, communicating with the front and back streets 
of the prison. From the cellar window, by which 
we escaped, a few steps brought us into the street in 
front, and in view of the soldier ; who, fortunately 
for us, was at that time in the sentry-box, on account 
of the rain which was falling. We had previously 
selected a topic of conversation respecting New 
York, that we might appear to have recently arrived 
fi*om that place ; in order to avert any suspicion which 
might arise in the mind of the sentinel, or of any 
other person whom we might meet. We had 
agreed to walk deliberately, and without betraying 



XXXii MEMOIR OP WILLIAM TAGGART. 

any signs of fear ; arid were providentially enabled to 
pass, in the twilight, safely through the compact 
part of the town. Near the hay-scales in Broad 
Street, we went into the fields on the south-east of 
that street; and at a short distance from thence, 
without detection, we crossed the lines which en- 
closed the town, although these were strictly guarded. 
We then attempted to cross the road, and to steer 
our course between the forts by Irish's and Tamma- 
ny Hill, in order to avoid the regiment of Anspach, 
which was encamped near by ; but, as it had then 
become very dark, we soon found ourselves much 
too near for our safety. The darkness however pre- 
vented our re-capture : for, as we heard the sound 
when the guard was relieved at the fort at Irish's, 
we (to use a not unapt metaphor) were enabled 
" to steer between Scylla and Charybdis." We came 
out into the west road; and, having proceeded about 
eight or nine miles towards Bristol Ferry, halted at 
the house of Nathan Brownell, who received us with 
great kindness. 

As the troops at that season of the year, were en- 
camped in the fields, it was extremely hazardous 
for us to visit, at seasonable hours, those of the in- 
habitants who were friendly to the American cause ; 
but still greater, and apparently insurmountable ob- 
stacles opposed any attempt to leave the Island, un- 
discovered. As the shores were closely guarded, 
we could not possibly obtain a boat ; and our only 
alternative was to procure a number of i-ails from 
the fences, for the construction of a raft ; and then 
to await a proper time for making an attempt to es- 
cape in that manner. This was truly the most haz- 
ardous part of our enterprise ; for we were obliged 
to launch our frail and unseaworthy bark between 
two of the nightly guards which were stationed on 
the shore. But the same Providence, by which we 
had thus far been so signally favored, still shielded 



MEMOIR OF WILLIAM TAGGART. XXXIU 

and protected us. We left the shore with our raft, 
unperceived. A thick fog soon came up, and as it 
was very cahn we knew not in what direction to 
steer. We were all night upon, or rather in, the 
water, as our rude bark was not strong enough to 
keep us entirely above the surface ; and at day- 
break, when the fog passed away, we found our- 
selves so near the Island, that we could see the sen- 
tinels leaving the shore, and were in momentary 
expectation of being pursued and retaken. We 
were, however, enabled to continue our course ; and, 
about an hour after sunrise, we safely landed from 
our sinking raft, on the south point of the Island of 
Prudence, a distance of eight or ten miles from the 
spot where we embarked. From Prudence, w^e 
were taken in a boat, and conveyed to the town of 
Bristol ; and from thence proceeded to our respec- 
tive places of abode. How wonderful are the ways 
of Him, whose throne is in the Heavens ; whose 
tender mercies are over all his works ; whose word 
assures us, " that it is not in man that walketh, to 
direct his steps " ! In the autumn following, the 
British forces evacuated Rhode Island, and departed 
for New York ; and in the spring my father again 
removed his family to the Island, — but not to our 
once flourishino: and delightful abode. Not a ves- 
tige remained of our mansion, which, with every 
surrounding building, was totally demolished ; — the 
orchards, the fruit, and ornamental trees were utterly 
destroyed; even the hay and rails were consumed; 
and nothing remained but a barren, uncultivated 
heath. This was a deplorable prospect for a man 
with a numerous family. This sad reverse of for- 
tune was all attributable to the active part we had 
taken in behalf of our beloved country ; but the 
love of Liberty was so closely interwoven with our 
nature, that they must stand or fall together. My 
father was advised to make application to the 
c 



XXXIV MEMOIR OF WILLIAM TAGGART. 

general government, for some recompense for his 
great losses ; but he never did more than to make an 
estimate of them, which, if I correctly remember, 
amounted to twelve thousand dollars. At his de- 
cease, I found that the portion of his estate which 
had been devised to me was involved beyond its 
value, under a heavy mortgage. But, with a firm 
persuasion, that by industry I should be able to re- 
deem it, I commenced the work of repair, and 
erected suitable buildings for the accommodation of 
my increasing family. Bat, as this was composed 
entirely of females, my agricultural concerns were 
managed with difficulty. In addition to this, we 
have experienced a long scene of affliction, in the 
protracted illness of three amiable daughters ; one 
of whom, for a long time, has been, and still is, de- 
prived of her reason, — another, for more than ten 
years, has been, by a series of complicated disorders, 
confined helpless to her bed, — and a third, who 
more than three years since, on the day after the 
fiineral obsequies of another sister, was seized with 
sudden illness, has also been confined from that 
time until the last few weeks. Thus, by an accu- 
mulation of misfortunes, I have been compelled to 
relinquish my property to my indulgent creditors ; 
excepting a sufficiency for procuring a small tene- 
ment for my suffering family. But, what abundant 
reason have I to pour out my soul in grateful ac- 
knowledgment to the Author of all good, that in 
the midst of judgment he hath remembered mercy ; 
that he has taken my feet from the miry clay, and 
placed them on the rock Christ Jesus. 

In June, 1804, I united in Christian fellowship 
with the Second Baptist Church in Newport ; and 
in September, 1809, was chosen by an unanimous 
vote to the office of deacon. As an additional mo- 
tive to call on my soul to bless God's holy name, I 
have abundant reason to hope and firmly believe, 



MEMOIR OF WILLIAM TAGGART. XXXV 

that my three afflicted daughters have found the 
pearl of great price : and, when reason shall have 
regained its empire in the mind of my afflicted Ma- 
ria, they will unite in pronouncing all things as loss 
and dross, in comparison with the knowledge of 
their exalted Redeemer ; and, with devout hearts and 
united voices, say with the inspired Apostle, " Our 
light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh 
for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of 
glory." 

WILLIAM TAGGART. 

MiddUtoion, R. L, October 2ith, 1833. 



SOME ACCOUNT OF THE AUTHOR. 

WRITTEN BY HERSELF. 

During infancy and childhood I was the subject 
of emaciating disease, and suffered much from pain 
and debility ; but, when health permitted, I occasion- 
ally attended school, during the summer season only, 
from my sixth to my ninth year, and six or eight 
weeks, several years afterwards, to study geography 
and grammar. My knowledge of writing and arith- 
metic was acquired at home, as also that of grammar 
and geography with the abovementioned exception. 
I had likewise some opportunity, which was sedu- 
lously improved, of attending to the interesting 
study of astronomy, natural and civil history, and of 
reading the works of esteemed authors on important 
subjects ; but have been chiefly debarred, by sickness 
and indigence, from the advantages of education, for 
which, during childhood and youth, I longed with 
an intensity of desire, that was acutely painful. But 
for many years past I have resignedly acquiesced in 
the allotments of Providence ; believing assuredly, 
that all things are ordered in infinite mercy, and that 
the decrees of the all-wise Creator are righteous alto- 
gether. 

From the earliest time I can recollect, I was, 
though not melancholy, of a meditative and re- 
tired habit, and found much more amusement in 
yielding my mind to a pleasing train of fancy, and 
in forming stories and scenes according to my incli- 
nation, than in the plays, in which the children with 
whom I associated took delight. And during the 
whole of my childhood and youth, previous to my 



SOME ACCOUNT OP THE AUTHOR. XXXVH 

incurable illness, I derived incomparably more en- 
tertainment and delight from these mental reveries, 
and in silently contemplating the beauties and won- 
ders of the visible creation, than in associating with 
my youthful companions; though I was not averse 
to society, especially that in which 1 could find a 
congenial spirit, and such I highly enjoyed. My 
favorite amusements were invariably found, when 
health permitted, in viewing and admiring the varied 
and soul-filling works of the great Creator ; in lis- 
tening to the music of the winds and waves with 
an ineffable and indefinable delight ; in reading 
books that were instructive and interesting; in 
pursuing, without interruption, a pleasing train of 
thought; and in the elysian scenes of fancy. My 
employments were chiefly of a domestic kind, and 
my inclinations and habits those of activity and in- 
dustry. I had never the most remote and vague 
apprehension, that my mental capacities, even if 
cultivated, were competent for productive efforts ; 
with few exceptions, it was not till several years 
after the commencement of excruciating illness, that 
my thoughts and feelings were committed to paper, 
in the form of poetry ; and the sole cause of the pro- 
duction of many little pieces, since that period, 
was, that in them my mind found some small relief 
from the pressure of incessant suffering, though, from 
the prevalence of bodily languor, it was possible to 
derive only transient amusement from thus occupying 
my thoughts; — if longer persisted in, partial faint- 
ness and an insupportable agony of the brain en- 
sued. 

I was frequently, during childhood, the subject of 
religious impressions, especially when hearing or 
reading of the love of Christ, the depravity of the 
human heart, and the happiness or misery of a future 
state. But these impressions were fleeting ; and it 
was not till my eighteenth year, that any abiding 



XXXVIU SOME ACCOUNT OF THE AUTHOR. 

seriousness was produced in my mind ; when I became 
deeply impressed with the supreme excellence and 
importance of religion, and greatly desirous that my 
dark and alienated mind might be enlightened by 
the Spirit of Truth, and brought into a sacred near- 
ness to the Saviour of sinners, — that my soul 
might be renovated, and entirely conformed to the 
holy will of God, and that I might live a devoted and 
useful life. And for a short time I believed I had 
experienced, in part, what I so anxiously desired ; 
but I have never derived that peace and consolation 
from religion, which Christians in general enjoy, and 
which it is so amply adequate to afford. But if I 
have not been the subject of renovating grace, and 
of those holy illuminations, that are essential to the 
divine life, it is my earnest and supreme desire that 
I yet may be, and that my soul, in life and in death, 
may be entirely resigned and conformed to the righ- 
teous will of the all-wise God and Saviour. But, 
though I have failed of obtaining that enjoyment 
and holy delight, which the principles of religion in 
ordinary cases afford, yet through a series of the 
deepest afflictions they have been my sole support. 
When in the bloom of youth, with a high relish for 
the tranquil and delightful amusements of ,early life, 
and an ardent desire of improvement, I was at once 
deprived of every earthly enjoyment and of almost 
all that could render life tolerable, — doomed to the 
endurance of perpetual bodily anguish, — and, while 
writhing upon the bed of languishing, deprived even 
of the sweet and soothing influence of balmy sleep, 
the all-important support and restorative of exhausted 
and decaying nature. In the midst of these deplor- 
able calamities, a firm belief in the doctrines of the 
Gospel has sustained my spirit, and endued my soul 
with strength to bear, with a measure of composure 
and resignation, these long-protracted and inconceiv- 
able sufferings. 



SOME ACCOUNT OF THE AUTHOR. XXXIX 

But in order to give a more explicit account of 
the nature and progress of this afflictive dispen- 
sation, I must revert to the period of its com- 
mencement, which was that of my existence; from 
which, and during infancy and childhood, I was so 
extremely sickly, that my parents had no hope of 
my attaining mature years ; and though blessed, from 
my sixth year, with a degree of strength that enabled 
me occasionally to attend school, and afterwards to 
engage in active employment, yet my slender con- 
stitution was frequently assailed by disease, from 
my birth to my nineteenth year. Shortly after this 
period, I was seized with a more serious and alarm- 
ing illness, than any with which I had hitherto been 
exercised, and in the progress of which my life was 
for many weeks despaired of. But after my being 
reduced to the brink of the grave, and enduring ex- 
cruciating pain and excessive weakness for more 
than three months, it yielded to superior medical 
skill ; and I so far recovered strength as to walk a 
few steps and frequently to ride abroad, though not 
without a great increase of pain, an almost mad- 
dening agony of the brain, and a total deprivation of 
sleep for three or four nights and days successively. 

From this time a complication of the most pain- 
ful and debilitating chronic diseases ensued, and 
have continued to prey upon my frail system during 
the subsequent period of my life, — from which no 
permanent relief could be obtained, either through 
medicine or the most judicious regimen, — natural 
sleep having been withheld to an almost, if not alto- 
gether unparalleled degree, from the first serious ill- 
ness throughout the twelve subsequent years. This 
unnatural deprivation has caused the greatest debility, 
and an agonizing painfulness and susceptibility of 
the whole system, which I think can neither be de- 
scribed nor conceived. After the expiration of a 
little more than three years from the above niention- 



Xl SOME ACCOUNT OF THE AUTHOR. 

ed illness, the greater part of which period I was able 
to sit up two or three hours in a day, and frequently 
rode, supported in a carriage, a short distance, though 
as before observed, not without great increase of pain, 
and total watchfulness for many succeeding nights, — 
I was again attacked with a still more acutely painful 
and dangerous malady, from which, recovery for 
several weeks seemed highly improbable, when this 
most alarming complaint again yielded to medical skill, 
and life continued, though strength has never more 
returned. And in what agony, in what excruciating 
tortures, and restless languishing the greater part of 
the last nine years has been passed, it is believed 
by my parents that language is inadequate to 
describe or the human mind to conceive. During 
both the former and latter period of these long- 
protracted and uncompromising diseases, every expe- 
dient that has been resorted to, with the blissful 
hope of recovery, has proved, not only ineffectual 
to produce the desired result, but has, invariably, 
greatly aggravated and increased my complicated 
complaints ; from which it has been impossible to 
obtain the smallest degree of relief that could render 
life supportable, and preserve the scorching brain 
from phrensy, without the constant use of the most 
powerful anodynes. 



POEMS. 



EVENING. 

1817. 

Pensive, I walk beside the placid stream, 
And view the beauteous Sun's departing beam, 
As o'er the adjacent landscape's verdant hill 
His golden rays their brightness yet distil ; 
But fainter grow, as every moment flies, 
And now they vanish from my gazing eyes. 
Yet lovely still the scene, more lovely too, 
Than when the radiant orb appeared in view. 
A glowing softness, with a charm supreme, 
Marks every field, and smooths the flowing stream ; 
Bright clouds, commixed with ever-varying hues, 
Gold, purple, azure, beauteous charms diffuse. 
Now dusky shades apace begin to fall. 
And mingling light and darkness cover all ; 
1 



2 



Now twilight's tranquil, pensive, pleasing hour 

Diffuses o'er the soul its lovely power. 

Calm contemplation now enwraps the mind ; 

To pensive musing all the soul 's resigned. 

Sweet hour ! when every anxious thought is still, 

Like the smooth surface of the placid rill. 

Thoughts, unconfined and freed from earth, now soar, 

The farther flying still delighted more ; 

To distant worlds extend their piercing view ; — 

Enraptured, their aerial flight pursue. 

Elate with joy the sparkling moments fly, 

And circling beauties charm the wondering eye. 



AUTUMN. 

1822. 

Now Autumn tints the scene 
With sallow hues and dim ; 

And o'er the sky, 

Fast hurrying, fly 
Dark, sombre clouds, that pour 
From far the roaring din : 
The rattling rain and hail, 
With the deep sounding wail 
Of wild and warring melodies, begin. 



The wind flies fitful through the forest trees, 
With hollow howlings, and in wrathful mood ; 
As when some maniac fierce, disdaining ease, 
Tears with convulsive power, 
In horrid fury's hour, 
His locks dishevelled ; and a chilling moan 
Breathes from his tortured breast, with dread and 
dismal tone. 

Thus, the impetuous blast 

Doth from the woodlands tear 
The leaves, when Summer's reign is past, 
And sings aloud the requiem of despair ; — -» 
Pours ceaseless the reverberated sigh. 
While past the honors of the forest fly. 
Kiss the low ground, and flutter, shrink, and die. 



A SOLACE, 

1822. 

Thus anxiously why watch the dawn, 
And hope for morning light? 

When day to me is still the same 
As sad and dreary night. 



But yet the now approaching morn 

One pleasure will unfold, 
My sister and her beauteous babe 

Once more I shall behold. 

And though her presence cannot give 

The joy which once it gave, 
Nor from one racking, torturing pain 

My wearied frame can save, 

Yet still, 't is sweet to hear her voice, 

And feel my hand in hers ; — 
To know she 's sitting by my bed, 

A solace true confers. 

Her sweetly prattling infants too, 

With sportive innocence, 
Could cheer a heart less pained than mine, 

Or soothe less aching sense. 

E'en now their playful kiss 

Has a prevailing charm; 
Their artless questions too afford 

A momentary calm. 

Their little songs of joy 

Are constant all the day; 
And laughing eyes and merry looks 

Bespeak their life is May. 

Or, if sometimes a tear 

Bedim those sparkling eyes. 



A parent's kiss with fondest care 
The pearly crystal dries. 

But ah ! the latent woe 

That lurks in future years, 
To blast their spirit's playfulness, 

And cloud their minds with fears. 

As reason grows mature, 

New cares and griefs oppress, 

And patience oft and fortitude 
Must struggle with distress. 

Their troubled hearts will then despond 
To find Hope's promise vain ; 

But soon will youthful buoyancy 
Dispel the clouds again. 

O may their lives be quiet still, 

As aught on earth can be. 
And moments pass, 'twixt grief and care, 

Of soft serenity. 

May every guardian power on high 
Their growing years befriend ; 

And heavenly virtue's fostering hand 
From every snare defend. 

O may Affliction ne'er dispense 

Her deadliest sorrows drear ; 
But may the sweet, contented smile 

Their parents' hearts still cheer. 



6 

THE USE OF AFFLICTIONS. 

1822. 

My fainting life now longs to die, 
Then mourns untimely fate ; 

And then all those I long to fly, 
That are with joys elate. 

But the most happy oft lament, 
And do their griefs confess : 

Now joy prevails, and now despair 
With icy chilliness. 

For earthly pleasures quickly pass, 

And vanish quite away ; 
And sorrow, sickness, pain, and death 

Obscure the brightest day. 

But far beyond this world of woe, 
Of grief, regret, and gloom. 

For those who sought fair wisdom's path, 
Unfading pleasures bloom. 

The wise Disposer of events 

Hath, in his mercy, given 
Those sore afflictions, to prepare 

And fit our souls for Heaven. 



HOPE OF HAPPINESS AFTER 
DEATH. 



In spite of this despairing gloom, 
Some brighter pleasures yet may bloom, 

And last without alloy ; 
After this life has passed away, 
After this wasted frame's decay. 

The soul may live in joy. 

Religion can the heart divest 

Of its repining, murmuring guest, 

And cheer with love divine; 
Can fill the soul with transport pure, 
That everlasting shall endure. 

In ecstasies sublime. 

And when this world shall be dissolved. 
When time's last circles have revolved 

And quenched their earthly ray ; 
Then shall the immortal soul resume 
Its wakened body from the tomb, 

To live an endless, blissful day. 



8 

CONTRAST. 

1823. 

When by the limpid streamlet's flow 
Congenial spirits mingle woe, 
Sweet solace doth the margin strow, 

And happiness will dawn. 

When sorrow deep retires afar, 

To mourn 'neath Vesper's lonely star, 

With naught the solitude to mar, 

A calmness doth o'erspread. 

But when in pleasure's festive train 
The demon of insatiate pain 
Unites, the dregs of misery drain, 

And drench the sinking heart. 

While grief relentless rends her prey 
Hope's happy offspring, blithe and gay. 
Laugh, sing, and smile the hours away. 
Replete with social glee. 

Then deep is drawn the lengthened sigh, 
But no congenial heart is nigh, 
And none the falling tear to dry, — 

The tear of deep distress. 



Then gladly would that soul forego 
The sight of bliss it ne'er can know, — 
The sounds of joy that cause the throe 

Of anguish more severe ; — 

Would fly to some retreat where wave 
The sighing leaves, and waters lave, 
In pensive sounds, or rushing rave 

In varying tones and force ; - 

To the lone forest sigh each pain, 
While through the woods a pitying strain, 
Borne on the breeze in language plain 
Of consolation sweet, 

Falls softly soothing on the ear. 
And quells the murmurs of despair. 
And bids one gleam of hope appear 

To raise and cheer the mind. 



THE HEART'S DESIRE 

1823. 

Essay, my Heart, my aching heart, 
To lisp thy longing forth ; — 

Speak thy intense desire to gaze 
Upon the blooming earth. 



10 



All the desires that e'er thou felt'st, 
Compared with this, (save one) 

Die sooner than the taper's beam 
When the quick blast hath blown. 

This, this my panting heart excites, 

With all a passion's glow, 
That I may know long banished health, 
And feel the balmy air's sweet stealth 

Across my temples flow ; — 

And stray the verdant landscape o'er. 
And press the lawns, and walk the shore. 
That I have traced, long since, before, 
And lift mine eyes unpained, to view 
The glorious morning Sun. 

What years have passed of anguish keen, 

Since last I heard the roar 
Of clashing waves, or marked the scene, 
Where in the milder sea's deep green, 
The inverted, towering trees were seen 

From yon delightful shore, — 

Or heard the warbling concert ring. 
While echoing joys responsive sing. 
And purling brook and bubbling spring, 
In sweet melodious offering, 
Their simple music pour ! 



11 



Long since, I watched the sun go down, 

Far in the vermil west ; 
And lingering viewed his latest beam, 
Till the fair evening star's first gleam 

Shone in the misty east ; 

Then sought the stilly couch at night 
With sweet repose and calm delight, 
While fancy's soft aerial flight, 
In milder gleams of magic light, 
Shed peace upon my breast. 

Soft slumber's downy arras received 
My sinking form, and sweet relieved 
The pleasing task of thought, 
Whilst the gay dream's 
Unfettered themes 
The brain's freed fibres sought. 

Or, deeper in the placid night, 

I watched the flickering northern light, 

Or gliding meteor's bound. 
Or saw the fair Moon slow ascend 
Her radiant height, while stars attend 

At humble distance round ; — 

Or viewed the silvery hill and dale, 
While the sweet night airs plaintive wail 
Through gilded branches of each tree, — 
Or moan in concert with the sea. 
And sigh along the ground. 



12 



'T is long since Summer's early dawn, 
That breaks the shades of night, 

And the gay, smiling, blooming morn 
Have cheered my aching sight ; — 

When songs of sweeter harmony 
Than night's soft chanted melody 

Salute the captive ear ; 
And far soft slumber's bondage flies 
From off the glad, rejoicing eyes. 

And joys unveiled appear. 

'T is long since at the winter hearth, 
When friends and kindred meet 

In serious joy, and playful mirth, 
I held a happy seat, — 

And turned beside the taper's light 

The instructive pages o'er, 
Or heard the wise discourse of age, 
Or read with awe the sacred page 

And felt its quick'ning power ; — 
Then joined the joyous vocal strain, 
While fast against the sheltering pane 
Dash the large, pattering drops of rain, 

Or wild winds blustering roar. 

O Health, thy succouring aid extend. 
While low, with bleeding heart, I bend, 
And on thine every means attend. 



13 



And sue with streaming eyes ; — 
But more remote thou fliest away, 
The humbler I thine influence pray, 

And expectation dies. 

Twice three long years of life have gone. 
Since thy loved presence was withdrawn, 

And I to grief resigned ; — 
Laid on the couch of lingering pain, 
Where stern disease's torturing chain 

Has every limb confined ; 

And separate from the household band, 

Disconsolate and lone, 
With no sweet converse's social charm 
One pain imperious to disarm, 

Or quell the rising moan, 
I lie in hopeless doom to grieve. 
While no kind office can relieve, 
Nor can I sustenance receive 

But from another's hand ; 

While anguish veils the body o'er 
And balmy sleep is known no more. 
And every thought that thrills the brain 
Gives frantic energy to pain, 
And the cold dew-drops copious drain 
Through every opening, rending pore. 



14 



Health ! wilt thou not, for the black stream, 
That bears keen poison through the veins, 

A cordial swift prepare ; — 
Bring back their own bright crimson glow 
And the true circulating flow, 

And mitigate despair ? 

Once more my pleadings I renew, 
And with my parting breath I sue, 

Goaded by potent pain. 
By all the pangs of wasting life, 
By gasping nature's chilling strife, 

To gain one lingering view 
Of thy fair aspect, mildly sweet. 
And kiss from off thine airy feet 

The healing drops of dew. 

O bathe my burning temples now, 
And cool the scorching of my brow. 

And light the rayless eye ; — 
My strength revive with thine own might. 
And with thy footsteps firm and light, 
O bear me to thy radiant height, 

Where, soft reposing, lie 
Mild peace, and happiness, and joy, 
And Nature's sweets that never cloy. 
Unmixed with direful pain's alloy ; — 

Leave me not thus to die ! 



15 

HEALTH. 
1823. 

When from the fair and verdant fields 

Her breath salubrious blows, 
Then Health her choicest blessing yields, 

And peaceful pleasure flows. 

Far as the breezes fan the air, 

Her gentle influence flies, 
When o'er the wakening hemisphere 

The charms of morning rise. 

Fresh odors forth exhaling pour 

And every breath is balm ; 
The air wafts kisses to the rose, 
And o'er the humble wildling flows, 

And owns each fragrant charm. 

And when bright Phoebus' beaming smile 
Decoys the dew-drops from the lawn, 
Then calmly speed the flowing hours, 
And Hope relumes the mental powers, — 
On gilded pinions borne. 



16 



Can aught be brighter than the ray 
That bears the orient smile of day, 
When the first beams of sunlight play 

On dew-bespangled flowers ? 
The soul domestic peace employs 
With sweet affection's lovelier joys. 

And when the day's declining hour 
Invites you to the woodland bower, 

Where bending osiers wave. 
And near the mossy hillock's side 
The gently rippling waters glide, 

And the green margin lave. 

Then 'neath the shades with dulcet song 
Will Youth her pleasures sweet prolong. 

And when sere Autumn's sallow leaves 

Fly from the bending tree. 
And, low and sad, the dull wind grieves 

Along the fading lea. 
Though vernal green and summer's tints 

And beauteous blooms decay, 
Still hovering o'er the changing hues, 

Content's soft numbers play. 



17 

THE CHANGE. 
May, 1824. 

Ye morning scenes ! ye evening beams ! 

I once have peace enjoyed, 
And, watching at your golden gates, 

Drank pleasure unalloyed. 

Gayly each gilded moment sped, 

When Pleasure beamed and Rapture led ; 

Each winning flower was sweet and bright. 

Bathed in ethereal dew; 
And happiness culled the fair wreath 

Where joys redundant grew : 
Hope's blossoms bloomed an annual round, 
Nor one loved leaf died on the ground. 

Ah ! what this saddening change has wrought ? 

What cause for gloomy sighs ? 
What turns away, with painful haste, 

From these fair scenes the eyes ? 
They ne'er more bright than now were found. 
Nor shed a richer glory round. 
Affiictiori' s adverse blast has swept afar 
Hope's golden blossoms, and bedimmed life's star. 



18 

AN INVOCATION TO HOPE, 

' 1824. 

Reach out, sweet Hope, thy fostering hand, 
To succour in this barren land — 

Of aught but pain and grief: 
There 's naught that now my heart can cheer, 
Unless thy soothing voice be near. 

To calm and give relief 

Come, quickly fly, ere 't is too late, 
While, struggling with oppressive fate, 

Life's feeble pulses flow : 
Oh ! in this sad, distressing hour, 
Wilt thou display thy sovereign power. 

And guide through every woe ? 

Then, O accept my thanks sincere. 
If thou my prayer shalt deign to hear, 

And thy deliverance send, 
I '11 ever live thy devotee ; 
My willing heart I '11 give to thee. 

Until my life shall end. 



19 



THE HAPPY BIRDS. 

Serenely now the day rolls on, 
And gladdening sun-beams play 

Wide o'er the fair cerulean arch, 
With bright, unclouded ray : 

And flitting o'er the verdant fields 
The feathered songsters move, 

Chirping unsullied pleasures forth, 
In varying tones of love. 

Sweet was the hour, when Nature gave 
Her loveliest treasures birth, 

And sent these artless choristers 
To bless the smiling earth, 

And blest are ye, gay, sinless Birds, 

That feel no human woe. 
No fierce disease, no mental pang. 

Nor sorrow's latent throe. 

And sweet your matin song shall rise. 
And soft your vesper strain ; 

And soothing harmony resound 
Throughout the sylvan plain. 



20 



TO MY FATHER'S FRIEND. 

Friend of the reverend name, on earth most dear, 
A Father's precious and consoling name, — 
Unchanging friend of him, how bright appear 
Thy worth, thy virtue, and affection's flame. 

Vainly this troubled mind essays to speak 
The strength and firmness of the cordial tie ; 
How in each heart, with pious pleasure meek, 
The sacred friendship glows that cannot die. — 

That sacred friendship, of no earthly kind, 
That firm endures 'mid every scene of woe : 
When silent sorrows overwhelm the mind. 
With purer lustre beams the brightened glow. 

The tie that binds thee, true Worth's fadeless charm, 
Unites with pleasing and resistless force ; — 
Worth that vicissitudes can ne'er disarm. 
Nor turn from its undeviating course. 

Firmly allied in spirit and in mind, 

Each for the other sheds soft pity's tear ; 

By faith supported, and by hope refined. 

Each waits for bliss beyond this nether sphere ; — 

With eyes unclouded to behold the dawn 

Of endless day and of perpetual joy, 

Where no keen anguish, nor sharp sorrow's thorn 

The everlasting friendship shall annoy. 



21 

PAST PLEASURES. 
1824. 

No more, dear Sisters, hand in hand. 

Beside the placid stream. 
At eve we wander pensively 

By Luna's silver beam. 

No more in musing mood we stray 

Along the winding shore. 
And list the music of the waves, 

Where mingling surges roar ; 

Nor haste, in joyous ramble free, 
Through flowery fields and fair. 

Where vermil blooms delightingly 
Wave in the sportive air ; — 

Where lucid streamlets rippling flow, 
The shadowy vales among, 

And Zephyr, flitting o'er each bough. 
Wakes the aerial song. 

No gayly tinted beauties now, 
From the wild brake's recess. 

These cold, emaciate hands convey 
In bloominjj loveliness. 



22 



No more each thought unsullied springs, 

With peace encircled round, 
As when in some fair bower I lay, 

Or on some mossy mound ; — 

While the faint light's last glimmering beam 
Did through the branches play. 

And on the thin cloud blushing gleam, 
Then beauteous glide away* 

Nor, when the still and placid night 

In darkness veils the sphere, 
And silence spreads a soft delight. 

Doth peace's loved form appear. 

No more the spirit tranquil yields, 

To slumber soft resigned, 
The pleasing meditative task 

Of the retiring mind. 

Those transient hours of peace are fled. 

Those happy days are gone ; 
Time moving forward, winged with haste. 

Forbids their blest return. 



23 



THE STARRY WORLDS. 



Softly and sad the night wind blows, 

In melancholy tone ; 
And through the darkling branches sounds 

An unremitted moan. 

And deep the blue wave, swelling heaves, — 

Its mournful murmurs tell ; 
Mysterious sadness they inspire 

Where sombre sorrows dwell. 

But far from hence the glittering stars 

Proclaim a region fair ; 
Nor sorrow's breath, nor darkness' shade, 

Shall have dominion there. 

But gloom befits this nether world, 

Where mournful visions rise ; 
While joy, resplendent from on high, 

Glows o'er the peaceful skies. 



24 

ON THE RETURN OF SPRING. 
1825. 

In vain, alas ! are Nature's charms 
To those whom sorrows share, 

In vain the budding flowers appear 
To misery's hopeless heir. 

In vain, the glorious sun adorns 
And glads the lengthened day. 

When grief must share the tedious hours 
That pass in long array ; — 

When stern disease with blighting power 
Has nipt life's transient bloom, 

And long, incessant agonies 
Unrespited consume. 

How lost the glow that pleasure thrilled 
Once through the raptured breast, 

When, bright in every blooming sweet, 
This beauteous earth was drest ! 

No joyous walks through flowery fields 

Shall e'er again delight ; 
For sorrow veils those pleasing scenes 

In deepest shades of night. 



25 



Now, worn with pain, oppressed with grief, 

To wretchedness a prey, 
The night returns, and day succeeds. 

Without a cheering ray. 

The room, with darkened windows sad, 
A dungeon's semblance bears, — 

And all about the silent bed 
The face of misery wears : 

Shut out from Nature's beauteous charms, 

And breath of balmy air, 
Ah ! what can chase the hopeless gloom. 

But Heaven, — but humble prayer ! 



VERSES FOR CHILDREN. 
For Maria Rogers. 

Now young life cheers my raptured eye. 
May I the transient time improve, 

And seek beyond the glowing sky 
A mansion of eternal love. 



26 

PoR Ann ElizabetIi Rogers. 

The eai'th, outspread in beauty fair, 

I love delightingly to see. 
And learn my Heavenly Father's care 

Of every opening flower and me, 

For Amarintha Rogers. 

My little heart with joy beats high, 
And all my infant powers expand, 

O may my soul obedient be, 

And answer all my God's demand : 

OR THIS. 

From joy to joy my spirits fly, 

And every earthly beauty charms ; 

But may I live beyond the sky, 
Encircled in my Saviour's arms. 

For Martha and Sarah Rogers, Twin Infants. 

Our little joys, by smiles expressed, 
Are all our souls can now convey, 

While in our cradle soft we rest, 
Or on our parent's bosom play ; 



27 



Are aii, — except the flowing tears 
That from these eyes contrasted fall, 

Where transient pleasure oft appears, 
And tender grief, when pains appal. 

But may the sovereign God on high 
Expand our infatit miiids, and give 

His Holy Spirit from the sky. 
To guide us in his fear -to live. 

And may our parents early teach 
Our little tongues to lisp his praise ; 

And may our infant hearts beseech 
His pitying love and pardoning grace. 

And may these mental powers receive 
The Spirit that our Saviour gave j 

Be in his righteousness arrayed, 

And live with him beyond the grave. 

And if the paths of life we trace. 
And more mature our spirits grow, 

May we still keep his holy ways. 
And bless him in his courts below. 



28 



TO A NEPHEW 



Dear boy, life's untried scenes to you 
Are fresh with opening charms : 

No latent poison canst thou view, 
Nor aught thy fear alarms. 

Smoothly, serenely, on life flows, 
In childhood's pleasing sport ; 

Thy youthful heart now bounds with joys. 
Nor dreams the season short. 

But, dearest child, the path of life 
Is crossed with griefs and cares, 

And, in the various windings, lie 
Concealed, entangling snares. 

The brightest hope oft turns to pain. 
And fills the heart with grief; 

And promised pleasures, ere we taste. 
Oft cheat the fond belief. 

And friends, who promise love unfeigned, 
Their plighted faith may break ; 

When sickness, woe, or want assails, 
Regardless may forsake. 

But there presides a Sovereign Power, 

The friend of the distressed. 
Who guards the hapless child of grief, 

And gives the sufferer rest. 



29 



Seek thou His all-important aid, 

Assisting might and truth ; 
And through the dark, perplexing maze, 

Safely he '11 guide thy youth. 

And when thy days on earth shall end, 

Thy soul will soar above, 
To dwell with that eternal Friend, 

In endless peace and love. 



LINES ON A MINISTER OF THE 
GOSPEL. 



Where doth the brightest beauty dwell ? 

On blooming flower, or blooming cheek ? 
Where laughing eyes of rapture tell. 

And rosy lips sweet health bespeak ? 

Where doth the brightest beauty shine. 
Which I, lone sufferer, most admire ? 

On that calm aspect, meek, divine. 

Where virtue glows with heavenly fire ; — 



30 



Where serious thought and holy joy 
Beam in the mild and speaking eyes ; 

Where sacred themes the lips employ 
With ardor glowing from the skies. 

What worth, what virtue join to grace 
That manly aspect, more than fair ; 

What goodness shines in that calm face, 
As if an angel's smile were there ! 

What must the soul immortal be, 

That gives such radiance to the clay ; 

What glories must that spirit see, 
That beams around celestial day ! 

What mental power and lofty thought 
In those mild accents sweetly flow : 

With heavenly love that soul is fraught, 
And breathes its excellence below. 

Thou loved and honored worthy one, 
May all thy life such beauties yield ; 

And, when thy earthly course is done, 
Be with eternal glory sealed. 



31 

ON A STORM, 

X825. 

The harsh, terrific, howling Storm, 
With its wild, dreadful, dire alarm, 

Turns pale the cheek of mirth ; 
And low it bows the lofty trees, 
And their tall branches bend with ease 

To kiss their parent earth. 

The rain and hail in torrents pour ; 
The furious winds impetuous roar, — 

In hollow murmurs clash. 
The shore adjacent joins the sound. 
And angry surges deep resound. 

And foaming billows dash, 

Yet ocean doth no fear impart. 

But soothes my anguish-swollen heart, 

And calms my feverish brain. 
It seems a sympathizing friend, 
That doth with mine its troubles blend, 

To mitigate my pain. 

In all the varying shades of woe. 
The night relief did ne'er bestow. 

Nor have I respite seen : 
Then welcome, Storm, loud, wild, and rude ; 
To me thou art more kind and good, 

Than aught that is serene. 



33 



TO A ONCE FREaUENTED 
RETREAT. 

1825. 

Thou verdant vale of willows fair, 
O might I 'neath those boughs repair, 

At evening's tranquil hour, 
Or when the blushing morn serene 
Glides o'er the azure crystal sheen, 
And lucid drops of pearl are seen 

Within thy fragrant bower. 

There, ocean's distant murmurs low. 
And the clear, sparkling streamlet's flow 

The pleased attention greet ; 
And on the verdant margin gay 
The flowerets bloom in bright array, 
And o'er the leaves fond zephyrs play 

iEolian numbers sweet. 

There Nature's lovely charms combine, 
And through the soul a thrill divine 

Of untold bliss inspire, — 
Inspire to reach yon azure plain, 
The seraph seats of glory gain. 
Where harps melodious pour the strain 

That spirits rapt admire. 



33 



And when the day's declining hour 
Succeeds with mild and pleasing power 

Of mellow light refined ; 
When the charmed zephyr folds his wing, 
And the glad birds enamoured sing, 
Their vesper warblings sweetly bring 

Peace to the wearied mind. 

Alas! the stream of Health no more 
Will through life's languid currents pour 

Her mild and genial sway ; 
Nor can the beauties of the plain, 
With all their balmy gifts, restrain 
The agony of poignant pain, — 

The wastings of decay. 

Health from that blooming bower was gone, 
When suppliant there I could but mourn 

That her reviving breath 
No more would fan my aching brow, 
Nor hope within my breast allow. 
Nor fell, unyielding sickness bow 

Her gentle power beneath. 

No more, on me. Earth's treasures shed 
Their healing power ; the balsam's fled 

From Nature's balmy breath ; 
No more this wasted frame again 
Trips lightly o'er the flowery plain, 
But on the couch of withering pain 

Sinks in untimely death. 
3 



34 

ODE TO THE POPPY. 

1825. 

Though varied wreaths of myriad hues. 

As beams of mingling light, 
Sparkle replete with pearly dews, 
Waving their tinted leaves profuse, 
To captivate the sight : 

Though fragrance, sweet exhaling, blend 

With the soft, balmy air ; 
And gentle zephyrs, wafting wide. 
Their spicy odors bear ; 

While to the eye, 

Delightingly, 
Each floweret laughing blooms, 

And o'er the fields 

Prolific, yields 
Its incense of perfumes ; 

Yet one alone o'er all the plain, 
With lingering eye, I view ; 
Hasty, I pass the brightest bower, 
Heedless of each attractive flower, 
Its brilliance to pursue. 



35 



No odors sweet proclaim the spot, 
Where its soft leaves unfold ; 
Nor mingled hues of beauty bright 
Charm and allure the captive sight, 
With forms and tints untold. 

One simple hue the plant portrays 

Of glowing radiance rare, 
Fresh as the roseate morn displays, 

And seeming sweet and fair. 

But closer prest, an odorous breath 

Repels the rover gay ; 
And from her hand with eager haste, 

'T is careless thrown away ; 

And thoughtless, that in evil hour 
Disease may happiness devour, 
And her fair form, elastic now. 
To misery's wand may hopeless bow. 

Then Reason leads wan Sorrow forth. 

To seek this lonely flower ; 
And blest experience kindly proves 

Its mitigating power. 

Then, its bright hue the sight can trace. 

The brilliance of its bloom ; 
Though misery veil the weeping eyes. 
Though sorrow choke the breath with sighs, 

And life deplore its doom. 



36 



This magic flower 

In desperate hour, 
A balsam mild shall yield, 

When the sad, sinking heart 

Feels every aid depart, 
And every gate of hope for ever sealed ; 

Then still its potent charm 

Each agony disarm. 
And its ali-healing power shall respite give. 

The frantic sufferer, then, 

Convulsed and wild with pain, 
Shall own the sovereign remedy, and live. 

The dews of slumber, now. 

Rest on her aching brow ; 
And o'er the languid lids, balsamic fall ; 

While fainting nature hears. 

With dissipated fears. 
The lowly accents of soft Somnus' call. 

Then will Affection twine 
Around this kindly flower ; 

And grateful memory keep, 

How, in the arms of sleep, 
Affliction lost its power. 



37 



SUMMER SUNSET. 

When the Sun's rich rays at setting 

Played upon the azure fair ; 
Then my young heart secret whispered, 

" Eden's beauties linger here." 

Happiness, the scene pervading. 
Offered me her downy hand ; 

Swift we sped, the beauty fading, 
When she raised her magic wand : 

Pointing far beyond these glories, 

Far beyond the crystal sky, 
" Seek me in those worlds more pleasant. 

Seek me in the realms on high." 

She said, and vanished from my presence, 
I no more have seen her form ; 

But she smiles with lasting radiance. 
Far beyond earth's blighting storm. 



38 

MIDNIGHT. 

1825. 

Now Night her sable mantle wraps around, 
And reigns, in mute and solemn stillness, o'er 
The slumbering globe. — Sunk in repose supine, 
The varied mass of animated being 
Lies silent ; and the power of active thought, 
In deep oblivion sealed, no longer heeds 
The pleasures, cares, and woes of toilsome life ; 
Unless, perchance, a glimmering dream traverse 
The brain, with semblance of past scenes ; of joys, 
Extatic some, and some of sober cast ; 
And tortured some, with frightful images 
Of intermingling horror and despair. 

Others to rest resigned ; alone I wake. 
Weary and sad ; and silent cast my eyes 
Around the solemn scene : no voice is heard ; 
No footsteps move : a perfect stillness reigns. 
Save the light breeze that sighs in softened sounds, 
And plaintive murmurs round the casement lone. 
The pensive stars glow faintly : the fair moon 
Has risen on high, in majesty serene. 
How mildly beams her soft quiescent light, 
As if ordained to inspire tranquillity, 
And fill the soul with sentiments benign. 
How far from me is sweet tranquillity ! 



39 



And no blest balm of consolation doth 

Infuse content, alas ! but torturing pains 

And pangs incessant, unabating, shoot 

Their keen inflictions ; whilst my burning brain. 

Foreboding thoughts and dread contentions rack : 

Each slender fibre thrills with horror wild : 

Unnumbered filaments, tenacious of 

New woe, catch and convey through the whole frame 

The dire disorder. Gentle sleep has flown ; 

Nor dares revisit this assemblage strange 

Of pains and black despair. In vain I strive, 

By every art prelusive, to regain 

His power reluctant, to appease this strife 

Of mind and body ; and once more to breathe 

The soothing quiet of his balmy rest. 

In vain I close my eyes, that on my lids 

His kindly influence softly may alight. 

And fast retain them, till, through all my frame, 

His power restoring, re-illume faint life, 

And balm all-healing, vigor new create. 

But poignant pangs vindictively expel 

The soft restorer, and preclude his aid ; 

While the tired, watching eyes wander about, 

In search of objects to relieve the gloom 

Of inward anguish : none appear. The lamp's 

Pale glimmering light, an emblem, sad and true. 

Of life's faint, flickering spark within me, gives : 

And from the indurated walls, Despair, 

Grim-visaged, beckons, that his dismal port 

May the wild glance engage, and penetrate 

The dim, recoiling vision's aching sense. 



40 



The soul, — ah me, these agonizing thrills, 
These wild commotions and insatiate pains ! 
When banished Nature's great supporter, how 
Can Nature bear this dread conspiracy 
Of ills unnumbered 1 Yet, so long as flow 
The faintly circling streams of life. 
Dear is thy dreary gloom, O Night ! to me. 
Though rest hath vanished from thy lingering hours, 
And griefs augmenting cause convulsive starts, 
That make me quickly turn from side to side, 
Fatigued and fainting with the frequent task ; 
Yet tJiou art welcome still, and thy deep tones, 
That sigh congenial sadness from the wind, — 
Whether in whispers soft it moan around, 
Or fiercer breathe its strong, impetuous power ; 
When the fair moon her aspect mild displays 
Amid the silence of the twinkling stars. 
Or when obscured by thick and sombre clouds ; 
Nighty still thou ever art more dear to me. 
Than all the glories of the rising day, — 
The soft and varying rays of mingling hues, 
That blend in changeful beauty, and adorn 
The placid azure, — and the fleecy clouds. 
That, buoyant, sail upon the balmy air. — 
The joyous music of the harmonious choir, 
When first they gayly tune their magic song, 
Replete with artless melody and love. 
Can soothe and charm no more ; nor social sound 
Of cheerful voices, nor the busy scenes 
Of active, happy life have aught for me 
More of sweet pleasure in them. Mingling sounds 



41 



Perplex me ; and the sight of joyful beings 

Thrills the chill feeling through my tortured breast, 

That I shall never more again enjoy 

Those dear delights. The tranquil happiness, 

That mildly shone on my past life, is now 

For ever fled : the gay and beauteous scenes 

Of smiling nature, that with health and joy 

The heart relume, can me delight no more ; — 

For sadness rules, and fainting life begins 

To sink beneath the overwhelming weight 

Of hopeless anguish, that admits no cure. 



THE TWIN SISTERS. 

Sweet blooming babe ! 
Now gentleness thine every action wears, 
And winning sweetness with a charm unnamed. 
What beauties wrap thy little form around, 
And glow resplendent in thy beaming face ! 
And playful frolic in those laughing eyes 
Darts its enlivening influence to the soul. 
And thy fair sister, gentler than thyself, 
Twin-born with thee, with pleasing aspect smiles ; 
And with a calm, confiding glance of love 
Steals the fond heart away ; though yet unfelt 



42 



Each pleasing power and winning trait withiil. 
These ever growing charms, this dawning grace, 
And fascinating play and loveliness endear. — 
But soon the infant state will pass away, 
And richer treasures ripen and unfold, 
And intellectual pleasures thrill the soul ; — 
Their forms in beauty's bright perfections swell. 
Then, oh how fondly, will these darlings love ! 
Whom the same period gave to life and light, 
And the same cradle rocked to rosy rest. 
And the same arms in tender office bore. 
Sweet, lovely babes, may kinder arms than those 
That now support you, be your guardian strength 
Embrace you with immortal love, and bear 
You safely to your Saviour's breast. 
When this vain, transitory life hath passed ! 



PITY. 

" To him that is afflicted, pity should be shown from his 

friend." 

How sweetly friends in kindness smile. 

And boast affection true ; 
But long attention weans their love. 

And makes their number few. 



43 



When first Affliction prostrates low, 

They weep, and wish relief; 
But should it prove beyond their power, 

Deny the hopeless grief. 

The sleepless night, the wretched day, 
To months and years prolonged, 

Drive all one's pitying friends away. 
That once benignant thronged. 

The gasping breath, the struggling moan. 

The sigh, and bitter tear. 
Ne'er find compassion when 't is fled, 

Nor reach the shunning ear. 



CHRISTIAN CHARACTER. 

Ah ! who can know the treasures of that soul 
Where mildness sheds its sweet and soft control, 
And virtue, guarding with angelic care, 
The placid spirit saves from every snare : — 
Where blest benignity, with pious grace, 
And calm contentment dwells, with peacefulness ; 
Where injured patience, smiling 'midst its pains. 
Endures affliction, every grief sustains ; — 
And kind compassion lives, that fain bestows 
Its bliss on others and partakes their woes ; — 



44 



Where sympathy's seraphic tenderness, 
In silence feels what words can ne'er express ; — 
Where reason reigns, approved by spotless truth, 
And virtue blossoms in immortal youth ; — 
Caution, discretion, and forbearance still, 
Dwell in each action and direct the will ; 
While meekness bows beneath oppression's load, 
And resignation owns its Sovereign God. 
There blest Religion, with celestial love. 
And faith divine, transports the soul above ; 
And glows expanded in that holy breast. 
Whose prayer imploring pleads for the distressed, 
For mercy's sovereign power to melt the soul. 
And Gilead's balm to make the sufferer whole : 
For blind and wretched, guilty and undone. 
The fervent prayer ascends to the high throne 
Of the Supremely Good, whose mercy saves 
The bold offender, and the wretch forgives ; 
While humble thanks and ardent praises rise, 
An incense-offering to the opening skies. 
O that the humble tribute of a verse 
Might these dear treasures of the soul rehearse. 
But far, too far inferior, dare I dream 
To ope the beauties of the sacred theme ? 
For half concealed from human view they lie ; — 
But, scanned with approbation from on high. 
The Power Supreme looks gently from above. 
And fills the spirit with celestial love ; 
Encircles in a Father's kind embrace, 
And wraps in the Redeemer's righteousness. 



AN APPEAL TO THE FACULTY 

While griefs relentless heavy press, 

And sorrow's icy chilliness 

Consigns to weary woe and pain, 

A hapless sufferer sighs in vain 

For sweet relief and balmy rest, 

To soothe the tortures of the breast, 

And calm the fever of the brain, 

Where agonizing tumults reign. 

For every pleasing vision flies. 

And sleep is banished from the eyes ; 

That weary, watching, still and still. 

See naught but long-protracted ill. 

And horror's train of dismal shapes ; 

While naught the trembling glance escapes 

Of Misery's dread, appalling power. 

That constantly usurps the hour. 

And marks the minutes as they flow 

With the dire impress of her woe. 

In vain the blessings of relief 

Are sought ; in vain the child of grief 

Seeks aid from drugs that nature boasts, 

Amid disease's powerful hosts, 

The weary eyes in sleep can close. 

And yield the wretched calm repose ; — - 

And pour the sweetly healing balm. 

That can imperious pain disarm. 



46 



The opiate's once so potent spell 

That could the wakeful brain compel, 

To quiet sleep no more can bind. 

In silent revery, the mind 

Pursues its cogitations still, 

In spite of the unbending will ; 

And through the watches of the night, 

New pains, with wild and haggard fright, 

Combine, and from the pained head 

Their direful emanations spread : 

Through the whole frame they rending thrill. 

And rage unseen with horrid chill : 

The nerves unceasing tortures feel, 

And madness threats the curse to seal. 

The sufferer, doomed to fell despair, 

Calls piteous on the friendly ear. 

And begs the Faculty to wake, 

Another generous effort make, 

And search, with thought and skill profound. 

If nauorht in nature can be found 

To close the eyes long oped by pain. 

And calm the fiercely burning brain, — 

The long lost power of sleep restore : 

The suing suppliant asks no more ! 



47 

TO A YOUNG LADY. 
November, 1825. 

Ah ! gentle Stranger, the sad cause of grief, 
That banishes, resistless, all relief, 
And dooms a hapless being to complain 
Of deep, incessantly afflictive pain. 
Is stern Disease, whose blighting hand is pressed 
On the warm current of a youthful breast ; 
With its worst evils lastingly combined 
To damp the ardor of a dawning mind. 

The endearing sweets of life I must forego. 
And youthful pleasures never more can know ; 
Ne'er hail again with joy the roseate morn. 
When its soft fragrance on the breeze is borne ; 
When opening flowers, in brightly painted bloom, 
Fill the pure air with balmy, sweet perfume ; 
When the soft tints of varying light unfold, 
In deeper crimson and in richer gold ; 
When glowing blushes, on the azure bright. 
And on the fleecy, flying clouds, alight ; 
When gentle music floats along the sky, 
As o'er the soft cerulean wildly fly 
Sweet strains of joyous, artless melody. 

I wandered, once, in happy, careless ease, 
Where various circling beauties gayly please ; 



48 



Through verdant fields, with flowers bespangled wild, 
Where the soft, varied landscape sweetly smiled ; 
Plucking the gorgeous beauties that invite 
The hand to crop them, and the eye delight; — 
Or musing, slowly gained the adjacent shore, 
Charmed by the waters' ever-restless roar ; 
Where swelling waves progressive, fiercely flow, 
Or round the ragged rocks, in murmurs low, 
Gurgles the song that soothed my buoyant breast. 
And all within was happy and at rest. 
With a dear sister, or a tender fi-iend. 
Each moment joy and happiness attend : 
Gayly conversing, or in pensive mood. 
We wandered far away in pleasing solitude. 

But those loved scenes no more can cheer my eyes ; 
No joy awakes, when morning's charms arise. 
For all is gloomy as the silent night. 
When sadness shadows o'er the hours of light ; 
When pain unceasing wastes the time away. 
And hopeless anguish fast consumes its prey. 
While tender friends in silent sorrow mourn, 
Augmenting fears forbid sweet Hope's return. 

Oh ! may'st tliou never know such sore distress, 
May'st thou ne'er taste of bitterness like this. 
May each fell symptom of malign disease 
Vanish, and health, and happiness, and ease 
Await thy hours, — successive pleasures flow. 
And guardian angels save from every woe. 
Accept my thanks, thy gentle pity's claim. 
From one, who happiness no more must name. 



TO MRS. R 
1826. 



Where is that smile of sparkling light 
That played o'er thy fair brow? 

The radiance of the heart's delight, -r- 
In vain we seek it now. 

When life's bright morn unfolding bloomed, 

Luxuriant to the view, 
Then fancy every scene illumed, 

With rapture ever new. 

While pure as morn's first orient dawn 

Thy gentle virtues glowed, 
And, soft as shades of eve advance, 

Thy placid minutes flowed. 

Thy modest look and playful air 

Of innocence and ease — 
A winning native grace was there. 

That taught each word to please. 

While the rich music of thy voice, 

In soft endearinor tone, 
Could bid the care-worn heart rejoice, 

And hope's sweet influence own. 
4 



50 



Those dark and beaming eyes confessed 

The mind's refulgent power, 
And placid joy, thy spirit's guest, 

Gilded each passing hour. 

Though fled the bright and transient gleam 

Of beauty's early grace. 
That, playing o'er each feature, beamed 

With magic loveliness ; — 

Though dim the radiance of that glance, — 

Its lambent brightness flown ; — 
Tho' changed the smile where pleasure danced, 

Or mild contentment shone, — 

Far deeper thoughts and richer themes 

Now shade that polished brow ; 
Maternal love's soft, gentle beams 

O'er those fair features glow. 

And oft that pallid brow is pressed. 

As anxious cares arise, 
While, pillowed on thy gentle breast. 

Thine infant placid lies ; 

Or sports in pleasing playfulness, 

Pure as the opening skies, — 
And bright, with untold happiness. 

Its pleasure-beaming eyes. 



51 



While from the soul affection pure 

Glows o'er that faded cheek, 
And virtues, which the heart allure, 

Thine aspect mild bespeak. 

Though fled the early grace which twined 

Around that blooming form. 
The virtues of the fadeless mind 

Yield a diviner charm. 

Though cares which age alone can bring, 
May those bright beauties shade. 

Still in thy heart, affection's spring, 
Are joys that never fade. 

When thy loved infant's opening powers 

Disclose the dawning mind. 
What pleasure cheers the lonely hours, 

With hope's bright garlands twined ! 

And when its first soft accents breathed 

Its uttered love to thee, 
What visions thy fond fancy wreathed 

Of peace and purity ! 

Its blooming aspect bright witli bliss, 

The music of its voice, 
The fragrance of its rosy kiss 

A mother's heart rejoice. 



52 



A wayward tone, a want expressed. 

Engage thy tender care, 
And, soothed upon thy gentle breast. 

It sweetly slumbers there. 

Then those mild eyes with pleasure greet 

Its precious little form. 
And, gazing on its aspect sweet. 

Observe each varying charm. 

The sire, with sweet affection mild. 

Surveys the pleasing sight, 
And gazes on his blooming child. 

Rapt in a new delight : 

His fancy paints its future form, 

Its mind's expanded powers, 
And, with parental ardor warm, 

Gilds all its coming hours. 

How pure the joys where hearts unite 
And minds congenial join, — 

In sweet affection's power delight, 
And own its source divine ! 

Thus may thy moments sweetly flow 

With him, thy chosen friend. 
And both, with your loved offspring, know 

The bliss that shall not end. 



53 



TO AN AGED FRIEND OF MY 
FATHER. 



With youthful diffidence and dubious thought, 
The suffering child of thy fraternal friend 
Would, though by genius and by art untaught, 
Her thanks with reverence and affection blend ; 

Would breathe to thee, though no soft music flow, 
The simple tribute of a grateful heart : 
The mind, o'erwhelmed with long prevailing woe, 
No pleasing strains harmonious can impart. 

But gratitude awakes within the breast 
Each tender cord, responsive to the tone 
Of kindest pity oft by thee expressed, 
When Hope's blest consolation long had flown. 

The balm that Sympathy balsamic yields. 
From thee can soothe, when stern afflictions rend, - 
With peaceful solace the torn bosom heal, 
And pensive pleasure's milder influence lend. 

Cordial compassion, with its pious ray, 

And friendship pure within thy breast are shrined : 

And worth, unfading as perennial day. 

With all the higher virtues is combined. 



54 



Without presumption bold, expansive, clear, 
Thine intellectual powers bright stores display ; 
And sweet benignity with softened grace 
O'er the rich treasure sheds its spotless ray. 

Enabling wisdom marks thy reverend brow, 
And gravity bespeaks that serious thought 
Dwells with serene composure in thy breast. 
With heavenly hope and resignation fraught. 

Long may'st thou live, and virtue's halcyon beams 
Gild thy last moments, and may peace divine 
Waft thy blest spirit to its native realm, 
Where bliss eternal shall be ever thine. 



AN APOSTROPHE TO SORROW; 

THE SORROW OF THIS WORLD. 

1826. 

O Sorrow ! sad and dismal guest. 
Where'er I turn my longing eye, 
(In vain to seek relief,) I view 
Thy dread appearance hovering nigh. 



55 



At morning's dawn and evening's close, 
The poignant pangs relentless rend ; 
And when the happy seek repose, 
Thine agonizing woes descend. 

When all in quiet rest recline, 
Alone I feel the direfal press 
Of thy cold, heavy, marble hand, 
That tortures with extreme distress 

Where'er I look, or seek for aid. 
That darkening form is ever near. 
And through its hovering, gloomy shade 
No ray of hope can more appear. 

Why is this happy, peaceful home 
Made the dire seat of thine abode, — 
Where hope's bright smiles once softly shone, 
And gentle quiet sweetly flowed 1 

O leave this lowly, humble seat ! 
Once more let mild contentment breathe 
Enlivening solace through each heart. 
That thy keen tortures cause to grieve. 

Then shall each tranquil morn again 
Be hailed with sounds of grateful joy ; 
And placid peace, with thoughts serene, 
The soft declining hours employ, — >■ 



56 



The wild birds warbling through the air, 
The gurgling streamlet's gentle flow, 
The zephyr's breath, the falling shower, 
Shall fill the soul with rapture's glow. 

When o'er the lawn the floweret fair 
Springs forth in vernal beauty free. 
Or autumn's sallow tint, — and when 
Stern winter strips the fading tree. 

Still pleasure, hovering o'er each scene 
In fancied visions, from afar. 
Shall, with hope's smile serene, again 
Glide beauteous as the morning star. 

But whence this fond, delusive dream! 
Those halcyon days have swiftly fled ; 
No morning's joys, nor evening's calm, 
Can more their peaceful influence shed. 

O Sorrow ! whence this long delay. 
Why lingerest here with blighting power ? 
O canst thou, canst thou not away, 
And leave one blessed, tranquil hour ? 

But hush, my wayward spirit ; yield 
Obedience to thy Sovereign God : 
Then shall thy wounded heart be healed, 
And bless him for aflfliction's rod. 



57 



When Jesus to thy soul reveals 
His heavenly charms, his dying love, 
And with his Holy Spirit seals 
Thine interest in the joys above, 

Then shall this heart no more repine, 
No more shall flow the bitter tear : 
Adoring love and faith divine 
Shall banish every anxious fear. 



ON COMMODORE 
OLIVER HAZARD PERRY, 

UPON THE RE-INTERMENT OP HIS REMAINS 
AT NEWPORT, R. I. 

1826. 

What mean this solemn pomp, this phalanx slow 
Moving august, these military bands. 
With pausing pace and countenance of woe. 
And arms inverted gravely borne along. 
Mournful, majestic, without pipe or song ? 



58 



But list ! the silence breaks ; a mingled sound 

Of notes melodious falls on all around. 

The swelling tones flow solemn, and proclaim 

A nation's sorrow for the mighty dead ; 

And lingering on the breeze its accents came, 

Harmonious as the breath of spirits fled. 

Approaching now behold the storied car, 
Bedecked with ensigns of a conquering war ; 
And nearer view the once effective sword, 
The plume and helmet of its lifeless lord ; 
The valiant warrior, who in battle won 
A name of glory that shall never die. 
His name immortal through all lands shall fly, 
By Triumph borne along far as the rolling sun. 

Son of his Country ! lowly now in death, 
The warrior lies, shrouded in sable gloom. 
While slow they bear him to a native tomb : 
His country called, the dauntless hero sped 
Where battle raged, 'mid foul contagion's breath ; 
He followed with his life where honor led : 
The patriot sailor slept among the foreign dead. 

A distant land received his latest sigh, 
Far from domestic happiness and love ; 
No kindred tear, no weeping consort nigh, 
The solace of affection pure to prove ; 
But the affection in a Nation's heart. 
Swelling, proclaims the valued sacrifice : 



59 



Though not on glorious battle's vengeful dart, 
Fled his great soul away, yet still shall rise 
A Nation's tribute, and her Genius mourn, 
With memory sad and deep above his honored urn. 

'Mid signs unwonted of a heartfelt grief, 
His birth-place pays the last sad honors true. 
Slowly they bear him to the peaceful earth. 
Pausing in silence o'er the matchless worth 
Of their loved champion and illustrious chief, 
Then seal aloud their last renowned adieu. 



APOSTROPHE TO THOUGHT. 

Winter of 1826, Midnight. 

Come, dull Stupidity, 

From grief and anguish free. 
With Somnus' semblance mark the nightly hours 

O ! do thou soft pervade 

With still Lethean aid ; 
With healing balm and with oblivious powers 



60 



Encompass my tired brain, 

And bid each mental pain 
Fly with dread visions far from hence away. 

Away ! imperious Thought ! 

With keenest anguish fraught ; 
Thy aid I ask not, nor invoke thy sway ! 

Leave the lone hours to rest, 

Obey the mild behest, 
And swift, with silent haste, retire afar. 

Visit thy votaries pale, 

Who thee at midnight hail, 
And by thy power sublime contemplate every star : 

The studious thee enjoys. 

Free from tumultuous noise. 
When the fair moon rides in the vaulted blue ; 

And by her paly light, 

Through the long, solemn night. 
Pleased with thine aid, doth fancies strange pursue. 

But why dost hither bend 1 

Thou canst not here ascend. 
And mount the lofty pinnacles of fame ; 

Thou canst not travel o'er 

Regions of learned lore. 
Nor light thy torch from Genius' magic flame. 



61 



Midst horrors wild and strange, 

Dost thou delight to range, 
And plunge to misery's deepest depths thy way; 

And brood o'er dismal care. 

Portending wild despair, 
Where ghastly visions gloomily dismay ? 

For this art hither come. 

Far from thine ancient home, 
The noble, wise, and philosophic realm ; 

Dost quit all thou shouldst prize, 

Leave the ethereal skies. 
To trace this drear domain, that sorrows overwhelm? 

Thou foe of the distressed, 

And torturer of the breast. 
That thus usurp'st the hours to slumber given, 

Bid'st the pale victim lie. 

With haggard, unclosed eye, 
And the sunk heart by keenest anguish riven ; 

Far, far from hence, begone ! 

Nor ever doom to mourn ; 
Leave, leave the lonely hours to calm repose ; 

The agonizing brain 

Needs not thy keener pain. 
Nor thy remediless, augmenting woes. 



62 



Still dost without remorse 

Pursue thy cruel course, 
And the consuming suflferer thus destroy; — 

Those pangs yet more malign, 

With griefs and woes combine ; 
Where once thou fostered'st happiness and joy ? 

In solitude's sweet hours, 

Spent in the woodland bowers. 
Ere yet dismantled of thy halcyon charm, 

Much wast thou loved, before 

Infantile days were o'er, 
When thou could'st solace, and each grief disarm. 

Then thy abstracted joy 
Thrilled deep, without alloy, 

And bound the opening mind affectionate to thee. 
With pleasure childhood beamed. 
When Thought benignant seemed, 

And in the yielding heart wrote soft serenity. 

But now those days are o'er. 

And thou canst charm no more ; 
Now o'er dread Misery's train thou reign'st supreme, 

And mark'st each waking hour 

With thy distracting power ; 
And bid'st chill Horror ape thee in a dream. 



63 



TO A SISTER IN AFFLICTION 

Dear Sister, grief and sorrows are 

Inwoven with our frame ; 
No human heart is free rom care, 

Nor misery's cruel claim. 

One only sovereign, healing balm, 

Upon life's bitter grief, 
Flows from a never-dying source. 

With safe and sure relief 

Where calm content and peace serene 

In rich exuberance flow, 
Celestal joys successive rise, 

And banish every woe. 

A noble pleasure glows supreme 

O er all the ills of life ; 
The aching heart no more complains, 

And troubles cease their strife. 

Could we, Maria, banish grief, 

And raise our thoughts above. 
Consider these afflictions here. 

As chastisements of love, — 



64 



Repinings banish from our hearts, 
And feel to Heaven resigned, 

Though hourly troubles waste our lives, 
Our souls would be refined. 

We too should feel the purer bliss 

Of pleasure all divine, 
Each moment give unrivalled joy, 

Through never-ending time. 

The Sovereign Power, that dwells unseen 
In the broad heavens on high, 

Can conquer the most froward mind. 
And change its sinful dye. 

Chanore our vain minds, O Power Divine ! 

Point to the blissful shore ; 
Fill our reluctant souls with grace, 

And teach us to adore. 



65 



TO A BELOVED SISTER, 

A FEW WEEKS BEFORE HER DEATH. 

Dear Sister, precious, cordial friend. 
By nature's warm and kindred tie ; 

Till thought in dark oblivion end. 
My love for thee can never die. 

Wert thou in peace, in health, and joy, 
My heart should quick responsive thrill. 

And, sympathizing in thy bliss, 
Bid every torturing throb be still. 

But now, the sad reverse is thine ; 

The blooming health of other years 
Has fled thy glowing heart, and thou 

Must own the world a vale of tears ; 

Where pain and sorrow all oppress, 
And quickly waste the fragile form : 

The transient dreams of youthful bliss 
Fast flee before affliction's storm. 

But, Sister, Gilead's balm is near. 

Its healing free, could'st thou believe : 

The Son of God for thee doth care ; 
His arms are ready to receive ; 
5 



66 



Yes, He, the one, the Saviour Lord, 

Who owns the world : — and all its woes 

Are present to his pitying eyes, 

Who felt them, died the death, then rose. 

He died for all, for us he died, 
To ransom our immortal souls, 

That we might in His bliss reside 

Who doth the heaven of heavens control. 

Now, with compassion's voice, he calls 
Us to approach his throne of love ; 

Pardon and righteousness he gives 
With the eternal, holy dove. 

Let us attend his gracious call. 

His grace with melting hearts receive; 

On his kind arms of mercy fall. 
And in a Saviour's love believe ; 

In meek, submissive trust recline 
Low at the great Redeemer's feet ; 

Our life, our all, — the world resign. 
And wait the pardoning promise sweet. 

Then, though life's current cease to flow. 
He life and peace eternal gives ; 

While with transporting joys we know 
That our Divine Redeemer lives. 



67 



ON THE SUDDEN DEATH OF 

THE REV. WILLIAM GAMMELL, 

OF NEWPORT, R. I. 1827, 

High on the willows hang your harps, 

Ye mourning, holy throng ; 
For Zion's teacher sleeps in dust. 

And mute 's the instructive tongue. 

Now with a pensive pace ye move 

To the lone temple, where, 
With eloquence divinely sweet, 

His voice dispelled your care, 

There mercy was his darling theme ; 

His soul, divinely taught, 
Dwelt on the mysteries of His name, 

Who our salvation brought. 

There heavenly strains exstatic flowed. 

Or mournful tones proclaimed 
Our deep, original default ; — 

And Sinai threatening flamed. 

Then peace descended like a dove, 

On grace' seraphic wing ; 
And faith triumphant songs of love 

Bade all the ransomed sing. ' 



68 



Thus pious, pure, celestial peace 

Did heavenly accents bring : 
Now Death has proved his conquering might, 

But Death without the sting. 

For sweet was his departing hour, 

When gently from his clay 
Omnipotence did loose the bands. 

And bore his soul away. 



AN EPITAPH 



ON A MOTHER AND HER SON. 



Mother and Son in darkness sleep ; 

In death's cold damp they lie ; 
But both shall wake, when Christ's command 

Shall summon all who die. 

Then, as the blessed Saviour smiles, 

And calls them to the skies, 
What beauteous forms, divinely bright, 

From these cold graves shall rise ! 



69 

With rapturous joy and bliss divine, 
Celestial songs they '11 sing ; 

And with adoring transport join 
The praises of their King ; 

Through endless days, in holy light, 
His sovereign love adore : 

God and his Son shall bless their sight. 
And sin be known no more. 



EPITAPH 
ON CAPTAIN J— 



Though the destroying angel cold hath pressed 
Upon thy generous, philanthropic breast. 
And thy pure, noble mind 's for ever fled. 
And form lies lowly in this darksome bed, — 
Thy worth, unfading, shall for ever bloom, 
A bright example from thy sacred tomb. 
And though thy silent dust shall ever sleep 
Far from thy kindred, who in anguish weep. 
The friends thy virtues gained, will linger here, 
And fond remembrance shed the heart-felt tear. 



70 

TO A COUSIN. 

' 1827. 

Once free as breath of opening flowers 

Elastic health respired, 
And, through the gladsome, golden hours. 

Met the calm eve untired ; 

Where o'er the soft and vermil west 
Bright beams ethereal played ; 

And through the pleased and placid breast. 
Bliss' brighter vision strayed ; 

Till the calm hour of sweet repose 

Embraced the wearied frame. 
And o'er the lids a downy joy 

In sleep's soft influence came. 

But now farewell to peace and joy. 

And all that earth can yield : 
Anguish and pain my soul employ, 

And Hope's bright gates are sealed. 

Farewell to thee ! no more we pass 

The social hours of peace ; 
No more together view the scenes 

That joy's glad thrills increase. 



71 



Yet tliou may'st happiness partake, 
And life and health enjoy ; 

With thy congenial friend be blest, 
And pleased thy hours employ. 

But sickness claims my wasting form. 

My broken spirit bends ; 
While misery, with unceasing storm. 

On my crushed heart decends. 



TO AN INTIMATE FRIEND. 

1827. 

While fierce afflictions darken round 
And pleasure's smile no more is found, 
While hope and happiness are flown. 
And sorrow heaves the breast alone, 
The tortured heart in deep distress 
Still ponders o'er thy loveliness; — 
Still seems thy soothing voice to hear. 
That sweetly falls on misery's ear. 
The memory of thy worth and truth. 
The sweetness of thy early youth, 
From thy sad friend's dissolving heart 
Nor pain, nor agony, can part. 



72 



And though this hand no more can guide 
The friendly pen, till pain subside, 
Yet, gentle one, at thy request. 
The thoughts within this heart compressed, 
In simple, mournful strains, shall flow, 
On pleasures past and present woe. 
Yet must thy gentle heart prepare 
To hear the tones of deep despair ; 
Though lightly touched my grief shall be, 
Thou much loved friend of infancy ! 

When morning life in brightness bloomed, 
And pleasure each young heart illumed, 
Hope's joyous accents then were borne 
On the soft breath of balmy morn : 
And virtue's pure, seraphic voice 
Bade youth in her loved power rejoice ; 
While friends and kindred sweetly smiled, 
And every transient care beguiled. 
The ardent, young, and glowing mind 
O'er pleasure's flowery scenes reclined, — 
O'er fairy tale and vision pored 
With fancy's glowing beauties stored. 
The poet's page of ancient name 
Charmed with its bright, bewitching flame ; — 
And history's calm and learned lore 
Was added to the mental store. 
While each a varying picture wrought 
To charm the soul, or guide the thought, 



73 



All met the heart, and transient pain 

Released its victim soon again. 

The minstrel's tuneful notes of joy 

Could every saddening thought destroy, — 

And fancy's scenes of rapture bright 

Through every tranquil hour delight. 

But now, those happy days are o'er, 

And these loved treasures charm no more ; 

No more the poet's sweetest strain 

Can check the cruel force of pain ; 

Nor flowery page, nor reason's voice 

Can bid the breaking heart rejoice. 

E'en Nature's blooming aspect fails 

To cheer the soul where grief prevails : 

Nor vernal music's gentle flow 

Can soothe the heart o'erwhelmed with woe. 

Past are those sweet and happy hours. 

Which, spent in nature's blooming bowers. 

Delight serene and pleasure gave. 

Though destined to an early grave. 

Ah me ! what grief hath shadowed o'er 

Those prospects that can charm no more ; — 

What clouds of sorrow move between 

The dawning and the noon-day scene ! 

Once each fair smile of morning light 

Awoke our souls to visions bright. 

The spirits in rejoicing ease 

Sprang lightly as the vernal breeze, — 

And mingled free in social joy. 

And kindred kindness' sweet employ : 



74 



Or contemplation's calmer thought 
Delight in loved retirement sought, 
When oft, at evening's sweeter calm. 
Silent we sipped the breathing balm ; 
While the fair moon with chastened be^ra 
Gilded the playful, murmuring stream, 
And with her soft, quiescent light 
Silvered the sable garb of night. 
Pensive we ranged the pebbly shore, 
Whose waters their wild music pour, — 
Where mingling waves, in loftier tone 
Of mournful grandeur, wake the song. 
Then happiness and we were seen 
In gayer rambles on the green ; 
And life was sweet with peace and joy. 
Nor aught could long the bliss annoy. 
E'en now, my friend, in mental view. 
Gliding we skip the vernal dew. 
And taste the fresh morn's healthful breeze, 
Charmed with her fragrant gayeties ; 
Then pause, while, all delighted, spring 
Glad spirits on their airy wing : 
Our bosoms thrill with pleasure's glow 
And rapture's ardent accents flow. 
Alas ! how changed ! the tear, the sigh. 
Instead of song, are ever nigh ; 
And life grows dim with lingering pain, 
While mitigation 's sought in vain. 



75 



Once more forgive the mournful song 
That flows from sorrow sad and long, 
But fain would yield to friendship's claim 
A tribute to its sacred name, — 
Would dwell upon the pleasing theme, 
When virtue glows with gentlest beam, 
And sweet affection's power benign 
Expands that generous breast of thine. 
But sorrow checks the pleasing thrill, 
Blending affliction's deadliest ill, — 
And boding guides my thoughts afar 
To misery's night without a star. 
But still may friendship's cheering sound 
Oft soothe the rankling, cureless wound ; 
And oft the midnight thought will rove 
On virtues that it still must love ; — 
Where innocence and truth combined 
Adorn the treasures of the mind, 
Where sympathy's sweet voice relieves 
The aching heart that silent grieves. 
I view the beauteous, blooming maid 
As when 'mid flowery scenes she strayed. 
Where the fair lily and the rose 
Their beauty and their sweets disclose ; 
Which her own blooming aspect wears, 
With loveliness more dear than theirs, — 
And sweetly smiled in artless ease, 
Brightest of blooming gayeties. 
But beauty's charms on me no more 
Exert their soul-enlivening power ; 



76 



For vision fails, with light oppressed, 
And beauty mocks the troubled breast. 
Then strive, my aching thought, to shun 
Those ills that cloud thy brightest sun ; — 
And dwell on fadeless beauties now. 
And mark the matron's milder brow ; 
For wisdom, prudence, pious care 
Mingle in meek assemblage there. 
The wife, — affectionate, resigned. 
The mother, — tender, watchful, kind, 
Bespeak the heart where virtue yields 
Her choicest fruits, and gently shields 
Her votary from mental pain, — 
And sweet content and quiet reign. 
Methinks I see thee fondly gaze. 
As thy loved infant near thee plays, 
With all a mother's anxious care. 
And hope delighted, beaming there ; — 
When at its lovely, winning wiles. 
Responsive, sweet affection smiles, — 
And its first uttered accent breathes 
Sweetest of pleasing harmonies. 
Then, clasped within thy longing arms, 
I see thee bear its infant charms. 
Or fold it gently to thy breast, 
And lull it to its peaceful rest. 
O may the beauteous infant fair 
Its mother's charms, her virtues share, — 
And long, thy joy and solace prove. 
The cherished offspring of thy love ; — 



77 



And bless her father's guardian name, 
And long his loved protection claim. 
Still may'st thou here be ever blest, 
And go at last to blissful rest. 

Adieu ; these pains, augmenting fast, 
Rack every nerve, and check the last, 
The fond remembrance of thy worth, 
That fain would breathe thy beauties forth ; 
But pangs imperious cry — " Obey ! " — 
And nature faints beneath their sway. 
Once more, farewell, my gentle friend ; 
May guardian angels all thy life attend ! 



WOMAN'S SYMPATHY. 

TO A LADY. 

1828. 

When doomed to agonizing pain, 

And hope's dim taper cheerless burns, 

Blest Sympathy, with voice benign, 
Complaint to resignation turns. 



■78 



From kindred dear, and much-loved friends, 

It flows, the solace due to woe ; 
And, softly mingling, silent blends 

With sweet affection's purest glow. 

But when from one, whom kindred ties, 
Nor friendship's charm can fondly claim, 

It wafts above the nether skies 

The lasting sweetness of the name, 

And thus, thy sympathetic charm, 

With seraph influence spreading wide, 

Reaching where sorrow's billows roll, 
Thrills a soft pleasure through the tide. 

Long will remembrance fondly dwell 

Upon thy truly piteous tear, 
Shed at pale misery's lonely cell. 

When hope was dead, and death was near. 

And gratitude shall e'er retain 

The love and reverence due to thee, 

While consolation's cordial breath 
Dear to the comfortless shall be. 



n 



MUSINGS. 

In vain the laughing Spring returns 

In beauteous mantle fair, 
And budding flowers unfolding bloom 

To greet the genial air. 

In vain the rising sun displays 

His radiant beams afar, 
And softer glories mildly blaze 

In the fair evening star. 

In vain the looming cloud, that soft 

Distils the grateful shower, 
And calls the latent beauties forth 

From each expanding flower. 

Though renovation's joyous breath 
Glide through the liquid air, 

And breezes soft, on silken wing, 
Salubrious odors bear ; 

Though smiling verdure dress the fields 

In every varying shade, 
And songs of sweetest melody 

The fragrant grove pervade ; 



80 



Yet sad the fainting eyes move o'er 

The once delighting scene : 
The halcyon prospect tells no more 

Of happiness serene. 

Now, no bright thoughts the flowing hours 

Mark with a soft delight, — 
Nor fancy feeds on fadeless flowers 

In fairer realms of light. 



THE SONG OF THE BIRDS 



The cheerful birds their notes begin, 

To welcome dawn of day, 
And usher glorious morning in. 

Charmed with its earliest ray. 

Those rapturous songs did once awake 

Me from a calm repose ; 
But now no quiet slumbers break, 

Nor sweets of morn disclose. 



81 



They now impart a sharper sting 

To sore affliction's train ; 
Thoughts of past health and pleasure bring, 

And prospects that were vain. 



THE VOICE OF THE WIND. 

[The most striking images in these poems are peculiar to 
the authoress, being derived from her peculiar afflictions. 
Except her earnest invocations to sleep, that " balm of 
sweet forgetfulness " (p. 94), no longing of her heart is 
more apparent, than her intense desire for sympathy. 
But while the loneliness and obscurity of her situation on 
the sea-shore deprive her of the sympathy of man, they 
open her ears to the " voice of the Lord in majesty," 
which she hears in the storm as it rushes by her casement. 
Perhaps, in such circumstances, she may be forgiven for 
imagining that even the drops of rain that fall against her 
little window are the tears which Heaven itself sheds 
over human sufferings. Thus, in the commencement of 
the following poem, her mind seems to be turning from 
her disappointed hope in man, to sympathy from a higher 
source.] 

1829. 

But list ! O list ! the mighty Harp, 

Devoid of frame or strings, 
Touched by a hand omnipotent. 

With tones celestial rings ; 
6 



82 



With awful notes now swelling high. 
Bearing mysterious power, 

Then sinking soft with gentle voice. 
Breathing of Mercy's dower. 

O list again ! the soothing sound 

Of Sympathy is near ; 
Enchanting tones aerial 

Burst on the captive ear. 

Ah ! yes, and now the pitying tears 
Fast falling bathe the ground ; 

Weeping the woe, the grief, the fears 
That wretchedness surround. 

Then cease, my soul, no more repine ; 

The healing mercy flows : 
Blest Sympathy, with voice benign. 

Her cordial gifts bestows. 



83 
LINES 

COMPOSED ON READING THE POEMS OF * * * *. 

1829. 

Friend of the unhappy ! thou no more 
Wilt mourn the fate of injured worth ; 
For thou hast reached the eternal shore, 
And bid a last farewell to earth. 

No more thou 'It sing in gayest strains 
The pleasures dearest to thine heart, — 
The scenes that rapture and delight 
To youth and innocence impart. 

Though poverty's cold, barren lot 
Thee to the humblest fate consigned. 
Yet nought could damp that glowing heart. 
Nor check the vigor of thy mind. 

Thy genius bold, superior rose 
To stern oppression's cruel force ; 
Unawed by adverse fortune's frown. 
And vigorous in its daring course. 

Temptations hovered thick around, 
And urged thy youthful feet to stray ; 
But the Great Guardian of thy soul 
Turned thee from their destructive way, — 



84 



Illumed thine eye, and taught thy heart 
The kind and sympathetic glow : 
Benevolence sat there enthroned, 
And Feeling wept for others' woe. 

That bliss thou humbly didst desire, 
To wipe the tear from every eye. 
And breathe into the sufferer's ear 
The sweet, consoling, cordial sigh. 

For thou wert Kindness' loveliest child ; 
Benignity thy soul possessed, 
And virtue's all-endearing charms 
Glowed ardent in thy matchless breast. 

That noble, generous mind has fled, 
That form is cold as senseless clay; 
Confined within a narrow bed 
To wait the Resurrection day. 



THE HAPPINESS OF EARLY 
YEARS. 

Ah ! where the days of dawning life. 
Where those blest, happy, precious hours. 
When ever-varying joys were rife. 
And fancy wrought unfading flowers ? 



\ 



85 



When tranquil pleasure's placid stream 
Unsullied shone, for ever clear ; 
And Hope's pure cordial, sweet, serene, 
Checked the approach of anxious fear : 

Each golden morn returned with joy, 
And each mild evening sweetly calm ; 
When youth and health, alert and gay, 
Inhaled their fragrant breath of balm. 

Then the blithe song of Rapture's bird, 
Or plaintive warbler's gentle tone. 
On the soft, breezy air was heard. 
And pleasure thrilled the breast alone. 

Meanwhile the melody of waves, 
Soul-soothing murmur, greets the ear ; 
The raptured bosom swelling heaves, 
And softly drops the joyous tear. 

O'er the bright soul, fresh scenes of bliss. 
Portrayed by fancy's glowing power, 
In winning form of loveliness, 
Delight and charm each fleeting hour. 

And through the calm revolving day, 
How sweet the kindred smile and tone. 
When each bright brow and laughing eye 
With fear and kind affection shone ! 



86 



How lightly tript the bounding form, 
When rosy health with rapture smiled, 
O'er the serene and flowery lawn, 
And every transient care beguiled ! 

A parent's smile, a parent's voice 
Awoke the purest thrills of bliss : 
The kindred band in love rejoice, 
And share in mutual happiness. 

The pleasing daily task performed, 
How sweet at evening hour to view 
The starry heaven's unnumbered host, 
And deep in thought those worlds pursue ! 

And when the silent night resumed 
Her wonted reign, with darkening power. 
Soft in the arms of sweet repose. 
Past the unconscious, peaceful hour. 

All nature seemed replete with bliss. 
Sublime or sportive, — void of care, 
And the light heart of childhood deemed 
These joys should ever blossom fair. 

Dear days ! in rapid pleasures past. 
Whene'er I glance my longing eyes 
Back o'er those joys too fair to last. 
My aching heart within me dies. 



87 



The waves melodious flow the same. 
The joyful birds still wake the song, 
The morn and evening gales stili breathe 
Their balmy odors pure along. 

The flowery landscape blooms as fair, 
The foliage waves as graceful now, 
As when each breezy breath of air 
Fanned fragrance o'er this peaceful brow. — 

Gone are the bright, the rosy smile, 
The raptured bosom's thrilling glow, 
The peace, the joy, that breathed the while, 
Soft as the warbling music's flow. 

Where calmly spreads the embowering shade, 
That oft this form hath gliding traced, 
When laughing joy and pleasure strayed, 
And innocence and peace embraced, 

Still nature wears her sweetest charms ; 
And wooingly each loved retreat 
Seems opening, as affection's arms, 
The long expected guest to meet. 

Far from each bright, each flowery scene, 
In solemn silence now reclined. 
No hope, no joy, no smile serene. 
Revives this blighted form and mind. 



88 



Though nature smile with aspect sweet. 
And varying seasons circle round, 
No more the struggling captive's feet 
Can 'scape affliction's prison bound. 

The refluent tide, the rolling wave 
Alternate on the peaceful shore, 
That oft to this glad spirit gave 
A pensive rapture now no more. 

Though every winged warbling choir 
Awake the tenderest, sweetest strains, 
No music, no seraphic lyre, 
Can lighten these afflictive pains. 

Now, fairest, wildest beauties reign 
O'er every verdant vale and hill, 
And, bright meandering o'er yon plain. 
Glides softly on the murmuring rill. 

Still all remains that once could please, 
Could cheer and charm the tranquil mind, 
But gone the peace, the joy, the ease. 
That fondly round the heart-strings twined ; 

Are gone, alas ! for ever gone : 
Now pain and grief, and wan decay 
Combine, and, in triumphant tone, 
Proclaim my future life their prey. 



89 



Now sleep spreads wide his downy wings, 
And flies from hence in sore affright ; 
While bitter pains and thrilling pangs 
Keep the dark watch of dreary night. 

The moon 's o'ercast with withering gloom, 
And sorrows linger through the day ; 
Chill sadness rules the dismal scene, 
And ceaseless anguish wastes away. 

Return, sweet Hope ! with magic power, 
Thy smile benign can give relief, 
Dispel the horrors of despair, 
And gild this tenfold night of grief. 



A FRAGMENT. 

Even to-day is my complaint bitter : my stroke is heavier 
than my groaning. — Joh xxiii. 2. 

If 't is a truth that in a world we dwell. 
That God hath given, and to him belongs, — 
Then 't is a truth that these the pains I bear 
Are here described far less than I endure, 
Who like a thing mysterious seem to those 
Whom health hath blessed and needful rest sus- 
tained. 



90 



SORROW. 

Sorrow ! bitter, dreaded draught, 
Must I ne'er drink but of thy cup ? — 
And though I drank of thee alone, 

1 ne'er could drink thine anguish up. 

Thy chalice ever will remain 
As full as when I tasted first. 
And others have as large a share, 
Though my embittered heart should burst. 



LINES COMPOSED IN GREAT 
SUFFERING. 

1829. 

Sad, moaning wind ! thy mournful melody, 
Joined with the murmurs of the troubled sea, 
Falls on the ear disconsolate and lone, 
Like pitying Mercy's sympathizing tone ; — 
Calms the wild throbbing of the rending breast. 
Where ever rankling tortures are compressed, 



91 



And each chill tenant that inhabits there 

Is grief's sad offspring, fostered by despair : — 

Thy fitful gusts, thy faint and dying sounds, 

Thy hoarse, loud roarings, and thy plaintive moans. 

Calm the wrecked brain, where pangs contentious 

dwell. 
All wildly striving, all triumphant still ! 
Congenial sounds, for each unuttered pain, 
In thy wild, frantic murmurings complain, — 
Reason, confusion, madness, and despair 
Striving the palm of victory to bear ! 
Convulsions direful rend each fibrous thread, 
Bearing keen tortures, and the aching head 
Traverse with vigorous and appalling might, 
With rage consuming and terrific fright. 
Laboring unwearied, watchful, firm, and strong, — 
Tenacious each of the aspiring throng 
To gain the empire of the ruined brain. 
Where Happiness once held her blest domain. 
Thy mournful murmurs sympathize alone ; 
But the keen tortures every charm disown. 
Thy wild commotion and aerial strife 
Tell the strange tumult of a mortal life, — 
When each sad night is marked with grief supreme, 
And every vision, every soothing dream 
Of rest and quiet, has for ever fled, 
And prostrate hope lies blasted, cold, and dead, — 
Each moment big with every grief and woe 
That reigns in ceaseless anguish here below. 



92 



DISTRESS. 

There flows from Misery's melancholy pen 
No metre, measure, nor consistent prose ; 
But truth unpolished, misery unfeigned. 
Griefs, that a marble heart would melt to hear, — 
Would wreck the strongest intellect of man, 
With nights of anguish, — struggling strifes un- 
known. 
Sought, but not found, oblivion might allay 
The maddening tumult. Peace beheld afar 
In the worn meditation, like a foe 
Inexorable, mocks the suppliant's prayer ; 
Nor could the world united rest bestow. 
Alas ! world, friends, nor kindred, — griefs severe, 
Remediless, unpopular and long. 
Have power, nor scarcely will, to mitigate : — 
For pity vanishes, unless relief 
Approximating prove the smile may soon 
Supply the place of sympathetic care, 
And ease affection of external pain. 
For anxious, mourning, deep regret may well 
Befit a human heart at intervals ; 
But joy must thrill between, and woe must change 
Its name and its appearance, varying oft ; 
And hope must smile to keep regret alive. 
And bear compassion through her toilsome task. 
Then, then, what anguish must the wretched bear, 



93 



When friends, — whom health and social converse 

bless, 
To whom sweet sleep returns at wonted hours. 
Their minds releases from all active thought, 
Soothes and supports with her nutritious balm, 
And vigorous leaves to cheerful life anew, — 
Find it too painful to lament their woe, 
To pause and meditate their sad reverse, 
The dying anguish of their nightly hours; 
When tortures fierce, instead of balmy rest, 
Run riot wild within their wasted forms. 
And thought, combined with pain's exhausting power 
Resistless pressing every care-worn nerve, 
Excites the system to unknown excess, 
And racks with more than mortal agony. 



DESPAIR. 

" Have pity upon me, have pity upon me, O ye, my friends ! " 

Sorely my wounded spirit strives. 

And struggles hard to gain 
A moment's calmness to endure 

Unutterable pain. 



94 

In vain I court long absent sleep, 

For one short hour to spread 
The balm of sweet forgetfulness 

Around my aching head. 

When fainting half, in fancied ease. 

My heavy eyes I close, 
And think the soft restorer near, 

Breathing benign repose, — 

Then quick returning ^watchfulness 

Destroys the transient rest, 
And misery lays her cruel hand 

Once more upon my breast. 

Now frantic thoughts fly through my brain 

By fiercer anguish driven. 
The strife it cannot long sustain, — 
It sues to Hope — to Peace, in vain : — 

No consolation 's given ! 

No succouring hand supports me now, 
My soul to wretchedness must bow, 

And feel Distraction's force ; 
For pangs still fiercer, and unknown. 
Rend Reason from her ruined throne, 
While all the struggling fibres groan. 

And I in phrensy toss ; — 



95 



And in my heart a pang more dread 
Than that which makes the dying dead, 

Teils, nought can ever more relieve, 
Till mortal pains life's course arrest, 
And from my struggling, writhing breast, 
The soul in agony divest, 

And the cold earth the corse receive. 



TO HER FATHER, 

SUPPOSED TO BE DYING.* 

1833. 

My Father ! sweet thine accents fall. 

And full of tender love ; 
These will thy suffering child recall, 

When thou art blest above. 

Thou didst the words of joy and peace 

With faith and love combine. 
That taught my soul from earth to cease, 

And seek to follow thine. 

She did not see him for four weeks previous to his death. 



96 



Oh ! shall no more my listening ear 

Catch that celestial voice ; 
No more thy heavenly converse hear, 

That bade my soul rejoice ! 

Those words of kind, parental care, 
Which soothed my bed of pain ; 

That look of sympathy, oh ! ne'er 
Shall I behold again ! 

Where shall thy suffering child repair, 

To seek protection now ? 
Since Death's cold hand, so often near, 

Has touched thine honored brow. 

Where shall this helpless, writhing form 

A kind supporter find ? 
And where, oh ! where, midst sorrow's storm, 

Shall rest this struggling mind ? 

Who Avill, like thee, direct the prayer 

With strong desire to heaven ; 
And grace unto thy children bear. 

To fervent pleadings given ? 

O blessed parent, guide, and friend ! 

Where shall my soul repose ? 
Our sky is dark ; what ills attend ! 

The world no succour shows. 



97 



Where ? — but alas ! on earth how vain 

To seek a cure for grief : 
Yet One the helpless will sustain ; 

Thy God will give relief 

Yes, He to whom thy soul shall rise, 

And be for ever blest, 
Will look in pity from the skies, 

And give thy children rest. * 

[* He died on the 10th of November, 1833; and it is but 
a just tribute to the memory of a good man, to say, that 
the spot where he hved more than thirty years, and the 
grave in which he lies buried, are consecrated in the affec- 
tions of his family and of his neighbours. Before he went to 
his rest, he had purchased, with the small remnant of his 
property, a cottage about four miles from Newport, and near- 
ly as far from his former residence by the sea-side. Those 
who approach this home of suffering will be surprised and 
pleased by the air of neatness, and even of cheerfulness, 
which pervades the humble tenement. Here they may be- 
hold one of the brightest triumphs of piety over the sorrows so 
thickly strewn in the vale of tears, through which this gifted 
female has been called to pass. They will ascend the nar- 
row staircase that leads to Cynthia's quiet chamber. There 
they will find a being, whose sufferings words cannot de- 
scribe, looking to her God calmly, and with a resignation 
which seems almost to have imparted its peaceful influence 
to the silent air that surrounds the lowly dwelling. It was 
in this chamber that she lay helpless, while those of the 
household, whose health and reason permitted, were assem- 
bled around the bed-side of the dying man, to receive his 
last farewell. Again and again she had heard the sad intel- 
ligence, that her father, who had for a long period of years 
7 



98 

THE CUP OF BITTERNESS. 

1825. 

All my life's spring-time lost in agony ! 

And now 't is fast retiring ; years have flown, 

One score and five, nor left much trace behind, 

so truly sympathized with her sufferings, and who had been 
almost alone in discerning the powers of that mind in whose 
cultivation he was chiefly instrumental, was now passing 
from the earth, and she would behold him no more, not even 
in the dying hour. Again he was restored, and probably in 
such intervals of affliction and hope these touching lines 
were composed. Four v/eeks she lay without seeing that ven- 
erable countenance, though from below she heard the sound 
of the precious words, which all who knew him will treasure 
up as the last legacy of an aged Christian in the immediate 
prospect of eternal bliss. If we place ourselves in her situa- 
tion, we shall not wonder that, as her father lay dead in the 
house, it was a consolation to her deeply wounded spirit to 
dictate these lines, at a sister's request, to a friend who was 
seeking to pour into the hearts of the mourning family the 
balm of consolation. Nor shall we be surprised, that now, 
when the bright returning June has clothed the earth afresh 
in its garments of green, she often gazes from the window 
at the head of her couch, over the orchard, where but lately 
she saw him walking beneath the trees, or, supported by 
his daughters, feebly attempting to select the spot for his 
burial. And when we look upon the unmarked mound in 
the corner of that orchard, we shall understand why the 
daughter dropped a tear on the flower that was brought to 
her, the first that had bloomed on her father's grave. — June 
2\st, 1834.] 



99 



Save their sad havoc with my dying form, 

And mind half prostrate, half to phrensy driven. • 

Ah ! would this night were past ! But wherefore 

wish ? 
For me, 't is better than the glorious morn. 
The sounds of busy life will sore distract 
This weary brain, and thrill my fainting frame 
With quick vibrations and excess of pain, 
And goad to torture every struggling nerve. 
Ah ! the day dawns ! The sounds of joy awake, 
And swell harmonious on the morning air. 
The feathered songsters, eager to address 
Their matin notes of grateful praise to Him 
Who formed their nature and decreed their joy, 
Pour forth the homage of their new delight 
In tuneful strains of native harmony. — 
The glorious light approaches, and the shades 
Of solitary night retire afar. 
But whence this gathering gloom, that whelms my 

soul 
In darkness deeper than the shades of night. 
And sinks my spirit in the depths of woe 1 
These sounds of joy are goads of keenest smart ; 
They mock my sorrows, and deride their pang. — 
Ah ! where the days when dawning life first woke ? 
Then a short taste of happiness was mine, 
And nature's charms and song revived my soul. 
Nor contemplation wrought a maddening pain ; — 
Those days are past, for^ever past away, 
Nor joy can visit my sad spirit more. 



100 



PSALM XLI. 

Blest is the wise and gracious man 

Whose trust is in the Lord, 
Who bows to his divine control, 

And keeps his holy word ; 

Whose heart in gentle pity moves 

For the oppressed and poor, 
Who all his hapless brethren loves. 

And welcomes to his door ; 

Whose sympathizing spirit feels 

The force of others' pain. 
To whom the suppliant ne'er appeals 

For succouring aid in vain. — 

He soothes the wretched mourner^s grief, 

And large his bounty flows ; 
He grants the needy sweet relief, 

And banishes their woes. 

He ne'er distrusts the piteous tale 

Disclosed in anguish deep. 
Nor flies when hopeless griefs prevail. 

But weeps with those that weep. 

He shall be blest in all his ways, 

His foes shall ne'er prevail ; 
He shall prolong his prosperous days, 

And pleasures never fail. 



101 

The Lord shall be his strength and aid ; 

And, when disease invades, 
When languishing upon his bed, 

His mortal beauty fades, 

Then holy comforts shall sustain. 
And heavenly thoughts employ, 

Shall banish every wasting pain 
And fill with boundless joy. 

And when death lays his senseless form 

Low in the peaceful tomb, 
His soul shall gain the perfect charm 

Of full expanded bloom ; — 

Shall soar triumphant to the skies 

On love's seraphic wing. 
And the new song in raptures raise, 

To heaven's eternal Kinof. 



102 

TO A LADY. 

1834. 

What sweetness, gentleness, what love 

In that calm face appears, 
And lofty thought, that soars above 

This darksome vale of tears ! 

On thy blest soul, refined and pure. 
What heavenly beauties rise ! 

And, with sublime attraction, lure 
Thy spirit to the skies. 

O blessed friend, supremely blest, — 
What sacred joys are thine. 

Of nature's noblest gifts possessed 
And crowned with grace divine ! 

O will that gentle spirit deign 

To think on one forlorn. 
Whose soul the bitterness of pain 

Through hopeless years hath borne ? 

O may this stricken child of grief 
Still claim thee for a friend ? 

That thought a balmy, blest relief 
With sorrows deep shall blend. 

Thy sympathizing accents oft. 
In the lone hours of night, 



103 

I seem again to hear, and soft 
On the worn sense they light. 

Thy pitying tenderness relieves 
My sorrowing heart e'en now, 

When gentle sleep in anguish leaves 
My thought-distended brow. 

But ne'er can this tried soul reveal, 
Till life's sad course be run, 

The bitterness, the woes I feel : — 
Yet all is known to One. 

Yes, and in His appointed hour 
He will each grief remove : 

Oh may I trust His sovereign power, 
And His sustaining love. 

And may'st thou ever still be blest,— 
And still those powers employ, 

To give the wearied spirit rest, 
And guide to future joy. 

O may thy earthly course be peace, — 

Life's purer joys be thine, 
Till its last flickering pulse shall cease, 

In ecstasy divine. 

Then will thy ransomed spirit rise 

To glorious realms above, 
And gain its mansion in the skies, 

Rapt in redeeming love. 



104 



CHARITY. 

May 1, 1834. 

to the young ladies of miss 's school, 

NEW YORK. 

O Charity divine ! Thy soothing voice, 
Sweet as angelic accents, greets the ear , 
And these fair friends, inspired by thee, rejoice 
To wipe from Misery's pallid cheek the tear. 

O how benign thine office ! with what grace 
Thou giv'st thy blessings, ever-beaming Love ! 
While in those lineaments divine we trace 
The gracious semblance of the holy Dove. 

O blessed Spirit ! that from God receives 
Sweet approbation, and a purer bliss 
Pours on the holy deed, when it relieves 
Neglected anguish in a world like this ! 

O mayst thou ne'er desert this sordid earth, 
That without thee no sacred pe^ce can yield, 
Till all the ransomed of the second birth 
With thee in Heaven eternally are sealed ! 

THE END. 



